the letters I sent left with no address

I hide my journal under the tree where the monarchs kissed my face.

Muses can leave and muses can go
I know―
its cliché to weave lines all day
that tell of lives
tales
things of long ago

     things I might not say.

I call myself a poet but maybe
just maybe
it means I pen all my thoughts―
 I tint them with colored shapes
  extended lines and gentle dots,

    but I weave them heartfully
      in and out of light
         laced in dotes
           like little notes I hope you note―

       as of late
I practice restraint

thoughtfully

I know no other way.