My poem ran away to follow its long lost relative.
We didn't know where the wayward poem dwelt,
but my new scribbled piece set on its discovery.
We looked in the fireplace ashes,
but found only skeletons long forgotten.
They insisted we try the garbage can.
Nothing but stories and love letters in there.
However, one kindly directed us to the pocket of yesterday's pants.
My poem searched in every crevice of those pants,
but all it found was a pen. The pen asked,
"Why so intent to finding a poem you already count dead?"
My younger child flared in anger, "Who are you to condemn?"
At that moment, I looked to my desk and smiled.
Writing long lost can't be found.
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