Of A Pending Future

She has big plans that she scribbles into notebooks, filling pages with bursting dreams she can't seem to make a reality out of. Perhaps if she tears them up to be carried away by a summer breeze, or folds them into airplanes she can shoot out her window. Maybe then these doodles would skedaddle towards a future. Maybe then they could root themselves to something solid and blossom into action. 

Until then, she fidgets with uncertainty. Restless for something to happen, but all this stagnation leaves her still. She is the fallen leaf that leaves no ripples, the flower that can not find the sun.