Feb 23, 2017 | 0 comments

I remember the tent

so small with a bent side

watching your arms try to piece it back together

It’s what you do

You’re a builder

I’m a watcher


I sat at that picnic table glancing up

at you every few moments

trying to capture you on paper at the time

Dreaming I could read it back

to see your face again


But I can’t

Every new poem your face changes

Your soul seems different than before

Words stay the same but you don’t

Changing with the seasons

your hair grows

and you change

About the Author

Bri Wilson

Guest contributor