Somewhere a poem
is waiting for me
to carve its name within
the old oak trees
and sweep its face onto
the sorrow and grief that spill from
the blue in your desolate eyes
or under the brush where ash
lingers and lures,
flowing away while you exhale
or even in the creek
where its words swim together
in pools of blue ink
scripted into lines
that channel
through my open window
flushing beauty on the
cramped white walls
where a girl sits
cradling a pen in
her calloused hands.
In my room
where my childhood looms
and my laughter sounds
old fairy tales
of cows jumping over the moon
and goldilocks in search of finding a friend
gathers the rhythm of my poem’s words
sliding past the girl I once was
like an hour glass
with every minute
of whom my poem will make me.