Ah, poetry, spring is really giving birth to my creative writing these days. Though this one leans toward the sad side. Within us, there are always sad corners, dark spaces, I believe. I cannot imagine anyone living the perfect life. There are times, we slip into the gray, yes? And they need voices too.

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There are secret gardens
deep inside the expansive
vacant places of my heart

Where abandoned paths have lost their wanderings
ponds and the dance of their flickerings
no titter of the birds
no bumble of the bees
and the faeries have lost their offerings

and somewhere,
a little girl cries and cries.
She is too far gone

And the work to untangle it
is far too deep.
And you say
little hands are useless tools
but fingers bleed to prove you wrong

she has lost the song that calls her home
calls her home
calls her home

call her home

somewhere in a thicket, a brutal land
forgetting pleasant things as she ran and ran
and in her tears
the seeds of her song
buried in the roots
where last her toes had been

and you say
little hands are useless tools
but they bleed to prove you wrong.

-Hummingbird