The sky can swallow thousands of birds
into its ever-changing color,
leaving a trace of feather
that fits the tuck of your ear.
The sun can be close to your heart,
shines your eyes and warms your toes,
while the world fogs your windows,
you stay safe. You stay happy.
I'll be the adventurer, the plaid and knit
finding this cottage of yours,
in the thicket of winter wonderlands,
tracing the light,
holding on to a single feather
tucked in my breast pocket.
Writing poems is healthy.
Very healthy.
Puan Sim is right:
Even if you aspire to be a doctor,
you need to learn a little literature
to keep some form of humanity with you.
(Not that being a doctor makes you less inhumane.)
But it's nice to take a break from learning
and start creating.
The poem isn't any good.
But I like the idea of finding warm sunshine
in the end of a cold journey.
Simple as that.
