Old Mirrors & Crafts of Clay

I guess I wrote it

Thinking one day

You would find it

I was cleaning my room

The calm afterstorm

I saw the yellow leaves sticking out

Shy and inviting

Soft as spring

I read each word

As a distant friend

Laughing and cringing

Wondering why

And what the heck did it mean

I stood on the white floor

Gray, empty and clean

Wishing I could answer somehow

Wishing I knew what to say

But I guess old quirks

Never go away