She would sit outside, but
the steps are wet
because of the rain.
Instead, she writes
by the glow of the porch light,
looking outside of her open sliding glass door.
She lies on her carpet inside
to write, occasionally
glancing outside at the
wet wooden steps, the dying vines.
An occsional drop is heard in the wind,
despite the fact that the rain has stopped
The cold November midnight air
seeps into her otherwise warm bedroom,
rebelling against society
as she writes
pencil scribbles on a page of a notebook.
She writes, and sees herself
and recording what she sees.