Forget-Me-Not, Or My Writing As a 12 Year Old

I live in quiet meadows, at turnings where you fain would stop. Though admiring eyes are turned on me, None heeds my pleas of “forget me not!” And you, you walk (or run, or skip) down your sunny path, but I remain amidst the grasses, through the evening’s light show and the morning’s bath. And oh! I long just once to see what lies beyond this field, but you will not remember me and my roots this ground will not yield.