Do you know what you’re doing?
Drops of oil on the surface
Spread far, running on the water
They settle, co-mingle
Until the shadow blooms and rests
And the fingers stop feeling the surface of the paper.
I can’t predict.
I can only guide.
Like a child born
With twinkly eyes
Looking for escape.
I can tell there’s a journey.
I can tell the wartier’s bleak
And the landscape is sparse
And covered in snow.
Black branches in the flurry,
Withdraw as a house in the woods
Revealed
With a welcome light
With a fireplace inside
And a rug to warm your legs
And rest a night
On your journey home.
Jamie Zubairi 
Nice! Great!