Sometimes I feel as if I have forgotten how to write

Or wonder if I ever really knew at all

For words have always come naturally

Never needing work or much thought

There is, of course, the general editing

The reading over for flow

But the rest has always been

A slightly crooked branch

Reaching out from the forest of my mind

Thoughts becoming simple markings

Seemingly complex

Interpreted a thousand ways

Then lain aside until forgotten

Trying ever to not look back

By embracing the way forward

Falling off track

Then failing to remember anymore

The why and how

Of where I began.