There is a room at the end of the hall
filled with the things we leave behind
lying like dried leaves in fall
familiar as a nursery rhyme

On the shelves are dusty globes
made of glass and full of snow
each holds a dream, now dusty and cold
which once did glitter like riches untold

Below them musty volumes sit
filled with every joy and wish
written in a childish hand
stories tell of foreign lands

I will be nineteen years old tomorrow.
This past year has probably been the most intense year of my life... Me and myself at eighteen have been through a lot together - both brokenness and beauty. Such beauty...

Suddenly it becomes real:
life is finite, life is
one-third over, wrinkles
and gray hair are possible.

The magazine ad suggests things
to do while still alive, none of
which are checked off--begging
the question: what have I been doing?

Before this new decade
is over, I'll be called
Mom. I'm not ready, how
did three tens happen?