Willa is the rime on a September morning’s first breath,
the subtle snap of a blade of grass,
the frisk of ice at the break,
smooth pale winter wandering knolls,
a sky forever, sunset cream vapor trails, and vanilla shivers.
Willa is rye and wit,
a winsome smile,
the raucous clack of heels at midnight on a cobblestone square.
Willa is the hint of a whisper, a thought for a moment.