I can’t tell you what it should be
But I think I have an idea
Of the things my eyes see
Upon hearing your words of poetry.
It’s a dense forest.
You’ve lost your way
But the strong smell of pine trees
Gives you an escape
Back to familiarity.
The rough, grainy feel
Of dusty red bricks.
From the clay on this earth
That forms both past
And future abodes.
The deep blue of the blackberries
That you eat in summer
Like the midnight sky
Staining purple On your rose tinted lips.
It’s the campfires you built.
The logs and birch bark turning black
As fire consumes them
And the flames jump skyward
To disappear into smoke.
Like a memory in our minds —
Of your poetry.