Buns and Corners

When I was five, I wrote with the flair of a poetess
I rambled on about friends and foes,
misspelled words and all.
When I was ten, I fancied myself a poetess of my times,
I wrote about the beauty of rains and the sky full of stars.
When I was fifteen, on dewy mornings I sat by the windows and words flowed
I inked pensively the experiences now so slight.
I have since raked my brain with a fine toothed comb and can’t find another moment
A moment when I sat down with my thoughts to write.
Now when I have grown up and have maybe stories to tell
Of love and of peace and of mistakes oh so riveting
I find myself speechless, like a lost child in a fair.
I type now in haste, check lists and emails
That which now crowd over the beauty that once was
Of poems on rains, written on dewy mornings
By the small inept hands of a child unencumbered.