I found a nice path through the forest
of my life.
Content, yes, and growing
but it’s been ages
since I felt the scratching of pen
against trees- pulped and lined.
We make new leaves of white:
red and blue measure our words,
stack them in rows atop one another
and our brains make sense
of ink on a forest.
My pen is a purple twig
as of yet, unruly in damp hands.