who's he?

I asked if he could hold my marker,

and he did

so gentle

so kind

We thought we should write a book,

and we wrote a series (but only in our mind)

The streets once knelt to snow and ice,

then he built us shovels out of clay

so we risked discomfort, braved the cold,

and broke it all away

Years passed as I stumbled onto a filthy city bus,

and found a seat he saved for me

But I flew onto a songbird's nest

and left him on the ground, not yet free

but some day we’ll drive across the country

from the snowy streets to the windy sea

where we can look up at the sky

and maybe then he’ll try

to learn how to fly

just as I.