In case you miss the fragments of your childhood
Don’t tell your mom.
Eat beside your notebook.
Sit next to a piano for hours, or days
the river that flows within you
until you get drunk with words and die a natural death.
Maybe in springtime,
When the trees are plump
And the rabbits have played among the
Lavender fields with the squirrels,
You can run on the grass with much ease
Let your feet fulfill their promise
To the earth that held your
Tiny voice and knee-wounds
At 6 years old.
Allow this gentle river to sink your wounds;
And the scars reminiscent to the days
That came but long forgotten.
Tell your friends how you wished the leaves
To swirl onto a clay pot
That had most of your secrets in the afternoon hidden.
When the sky kissed your back farewell
and the river sang an ode
to a passer-by
that spoke to you all this time.