I often wonder about the destiny of my poems as I write them.
I contemplate burning them,
Before having to relive the shame of having written them.
Or I just forget them,
Or I hide them by mistake,
In pages of journals, and in the margins of books,
Or I leave them etched into walls or tree trunks,
Or in some unknowable chain of thoughts
That I forgot to remember.
Writing them in sand, and then sweeping them away.
I remember them, I remember them less, I forget them,
I am saddened to have forgotten them.
Some I forgot on purpose.
But then I stumble upon them.
And like the petrichor of the first rain
Reminds you of something once so familiar,
That I still somehow forgot.
How it feels to walk outside and be utterly drenched.
I find myself reliving past lives and versions of myself,
That I had forgotten to forget.
Hole In The Hedgerow 
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