I glanced at the first rose of winter, Blighted & withered by the cold, Her blood red & stained onto the pages Of my very first winter poem.
Across the white grounds stood a man, Old & shivering like erosive sand, His rake taking back the souls of nature, Leaving still the branches bare.
But bare not much like the book on my lap, Its skin & tissues as bare as a single hair, The wind gushes & hushes & swips Turning the pages alive and well.
I desire to press the ink onto the page, And yet empty it is without a word, For after the rose choked & blighted, My first poem was stolen & gone.
By the wind, and into the sky, Into the soul I've longed to recall, Words were not enough for a poem, For poem was not words but a person of a soul I desire.
"We've always wanted to be a poet, but deep down we just want to be a poem ourselves."