Tree buds line the branches
but they always end up falling.
I want to put my hands up
and spin in perpetual autumn.
There is dirt at my feet
as the ground absorbs my body--
Baby I'll Spring back up
and the sky will be my father;
He gives me food enough
and pours down to me fresh water.
I can't write a single poem
while my head is quite this heavy:
My walls have to be softer
My fall has to be harder.
I don't know where I lost it
but somewhere it was gone.
Those branches are left bare
and at first are unaware
that their redeeming traits
have dived into regret
which makes winter so much colder
and freezes every heart so brittle and bitter.
The wind rolls over my new leaves
but I am naked as those trees
and everyone can see beneath my veil
that now flaps away in the wind.
One single poem
won't bring back what I need
and one single sorry
can't erase the old me
I've been running too long
to even feel my own feet
but I am searching for the person
that I have always meant to be.