My book is a work of art, Not just some children’s novel written with misspelled words and no capitals or commas. My book is art. This book has meaning. This book isn’t just some words thrown together. It’s art.

The regal wood floors are stained with colored markers, The smell of flowers awakening in the fields, The tears of laughter circling the air. Something wasn’t right. Marilyn could see the aurora glowing in the mountains and the birds migrating home, But where was the breeze that was supposed to be arriving today? Where was the touch of frost grazing the grass? Marilyn was eclipsed. The sun beamed through Marilyn’s window as if it was still summer, Although it was winter. Where is the glow of white from the snow, or maybe even the icicles hanging from the roof? All the other birds migrated south. Although it was still sunny, they knew it was time to leave. But one small bird never left Marilyn’s side. That one bird knew Marilyn was distressed since there was no one else but her and the bird. They all left without saying goodbye, Except the bird who never flew away. Marilyn wondered why that bird never left, But she never asked because, in the back of her mind, she knew why.

Marilyn sat on her porch waiting for the other birds, but only one always came back. The breeze never came, and neither did the snow. But the bird did, Every, Single Day.