False Beginnings

• Jessica Rumble, Grade 11
• Poetry
• 2021

Eight hours of this clean slate
And the old writing is sketching its way back.
Slow down. Didn't I erase you?
Your white streaks scratch;
Drip drop the red falls upon the black board.
The sun was fresh and the tulips sang colours,
But the leaves fell
Like my blood,
Its shape distils the water beneath.
A dark puddle,
A fresh failure—
And a dirty slate.