When I was seven, the Wal-Mart eye doctor told me I needed glasses.
I wore them for six months before I
couldn't stand
the lack in clarity they caused me.

There's a tree in my front yard I used
to climb
no matter what my neighbors thought.
Now it is covered in spiderwebs.

I've never seen a rabbit in the snow,
but they refuse to hibernate – perhaps
because of their determination
to not miss half of their life.
Maybe humans are like that too
Unless sleeping every night is a broken up form of hibernation.
We sleep one-third of our life away.
Or if you're me, one-half.

I wish gravity didn't pull us together
because maybe then my flowers
would bloom
and I could throw a fishing pole to the stars in hopes of catching one
To use as a pillow at night
Maybe then hibernating would be worth it.

Humans spend six days a year looking
in the mirror
But I vow to spend zero because
Mirrors are like glasses, they prevent me from seeing clearly.
I can't define left from right
Or what is real or a lie.

My cat wakes my up at the crack of dawn every morning
I squirt her with water, but she still won't
let me sleep.
Maybe there's something to see
I put my glasses away
And climb the tree outside.