fiction and poetry contest

She had been here, and now she is gone,leaving her mark like an imprint in snow.Her things are still here, but she has moved on.

I always wanted to be like the wild women in old movieswho have whole storm systems of electric hair,who are earthy and hotten things upand whose great talent is in letting themselvesgo, go, go. Oh, let it be me,

In the window, hung on fishing line, three prismed crystal globescatch and refract whatever rays dive down between apartment blocks:kaleidoscoping stars of rose, blue, saffron light dance crazily

The boy is walking about forty feet behind his mother. The two of them, the mother and the boy, are walking in the snow on the shoulder of a straight highway on a gray windless day.