White as peace,
White as the sky,
Whte as a cloud,
Rolling by.

White is beautiful,
And endearing,
It makes me wonder
What I’m hearing

White is peaceful,
Not intenste,
It makes color
my favorite sense

Written ca. 1987 (age 9)

The Mouse

    The mouse
        hangs around my kitchen,
wondering whether it's safe to eat the peanut butter
 on the two loaded-and-wound traps.

 I look over, see it sniffing,
whiskers quivering with anticipation.
I wince and look away,
bracing myself for the snap and crunch,
not wanting to see the dirty deed or its aftermath.
Like the spring I am tightly-wound.

My heart freezes for a short eternity.
There is only silence.
I look back over, and the mouse has not tried to eat.
It has won, for now

It will survive