I am not a whimsical snowflake amidst the wind's wintry voyage.
I am not the drop of dew on a morning's budding flower.
I am the pebble that sits at the bottom of the pond that got skipped a long time ago.
I am the lonely owl that cries out in the night and holds the darkness upon its wings.
I am not the nostalgic initials carved in the tree between two lovers,
But the knife that put them there.
I am the memory of what's lost and the conclusion that it's time to go.
I am not the pen but I'm black as it's ink and I write what I am.
I am not a summer's day,
I am an autumn's evening.
I am the bleak December.
I am the crunch of snow under your boots.
I am not the smell of rain but I am the hole in the ground that forms a puddle.
I am not the silvery glimpse of a spider web caught in the sunlight shining through an attic window.
I am the dust.
I am the broken mirror and the trunk of old photos of happier times.
I am not the caffeinated warm smell of coffee in the morning.
I am the ***** newspaper that got left in the ditch no one cared to pick up.
I am not the fresh baked bread.
I am not even the wine, just the stains left on the sheets.
I am the taste of blood on chapped lips.
I am not the dim glow of candle light.
I am not the waves of the canal refracting the city lights.
I am not the butterfly.
I am the cocoon.
I am not the poem.
I am the poet.