By Maya Rawitch

Originally published in Love and Loss Epiphanies self published by Cheryl Lunar Wind.

She sits in my white Subaru, 
balls of her feet digging into the mat
meant to protect her from the heat.
She lets her gaze drift out the window,
trying to will the pine tree’s sappy scent
to sift into her nostrils so she can ground
back down to planet Earth.

She steps out of the car,
her bare feet a stark contrast to the
black pavement.
She runs alongside the car as if the road had turned into a
race track and the empty houses cheering neighbors.
She stops at the stop sign like a good law abiding citizen
and stands there silently repeating the numbers on the license
plate until the car becomes a speck of matter,
passively diffusing ever so slowly towards the horizon.

Maya Rawitch is an early 20 something poet and aspiring published author who enjoys getting swet at the lake, tromping through the woods during summertime, and cozying up next to the cats at the Humane Society.

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