By
Jaime Twombly
Grown from a sapling into an
Awkward young thing
Nibbling on fingertips, clumsy
And tripping over shoelaces tied
Not so carefully
I tried to write you a poem
Rolled the words over my tongue,
Put them inside packages tied
With little blue bows but
They never made it onto paper
So I stare at blank pages
Digging for inspiration underneath
The onion layers of this lifetime
Searching for something
Lost along the way
Slipped from my pocket and
Fell to the ground with
No sound at all as the
Floor of the forest folded my secrets
Underneath her leaves
