I woke up to my finger pressed against a list of notes.

I don’t know how it got there, or why it lie beneath my palm.

This occurrence now repeats itself

Peaking all of my curiosity.

I lift my palm and start to gander through its peculiar roots,

Stretching deep into the ground,

That gently interferes with but a moment of my day.

Though it shouldn’t be surprising,

I took it that sort anyway.

Staring vastly into my eyes

Was what my mind would dare not let me see.

“Stubborn Lass!” I tell myself,

As I ponder all my lover’s done for me.

Something desperately clings to reveal the truth,

But who else would that be but me?

And, who else, but me, stand in my way?

By: Rebekah Turney