You’ve got your stories pressed like flowers
On notebook pages to be
preserves,
As though the right for you to share them
Has been as yet undeserved.
Or perhaps it’s something
primal
To simply be who you are now,
Existing as what you’ve
become
Without the need to tell us how.
I know one day we’ll crack the covers
On all those takes we never heard,
And find the past you pressed between them
Telling those stories word for word.
It’s just a shame that when a long tree falls
We don’t hear its echo sing,
And only once it’s hit the ground
DO we have chance to read its rings.
-e.h
