Finding Me

— Nick Butterfield

It is not the white paper
Of empty lines that intimidates me.

My atoms know well
Of these spaces.

It is Black Ink that carves
Boulders from ledges

And the fossils of a Mammoth and her baby
Out of a field of Artichokes.

It turns out it was easy to do.
The thin blue lines that melted the snow

is where I hung my hope.

I’m glad I bumped into you
On purpose.

My long whiskers sensed where
I was in the dark.

Sometimes, I would leave
And lose my place.

It was quite a long letter I wrote,
But I found something of me

In wide open pages

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