Elise Johnson, Literary guest writer

One…. two… three… four…

children scatter cross the forest floor.


Laughter flies like passing notes

as time keeps on, oh how she gloats.


Scramble, scurry, scatter, scoot.

Water soaks my winter boots.


Finally! A haven near

I hide myself with elated fear.


I will my body to slow its breathing

and look up at the stars of evening.


Buried under leaves of fall

winter gives its chilling call.


Wet grass beneath and stars above

oh how I wish I’d brought my gloves.


Hidden far from prying eyes

I wondered what it’s like to lie.


Buried under leaves of fall

with not a soul to hear your call.


The counting stops; ready or not.

Time she runs and doesn’t stop.