The Lost

I stepped outside to find a subject this afternoon. Despite the blinding sun, I shivered beneath my puffy jacket, cupping my lens with dry hands. It was the scratch that ended my search.

Crisp
a scratch
fallen leaves
skip in the wind
wrinkled and scattered
alone searching for lost
tired and worn, tossing about
a scrape and a gust - one takes flight
rising and wandering without aim
waiting patiently for peace found in rest

* * *

I discovered etheree, the poetry structure I used above, in Writer's Digest December issue - an article by Michael J. Vaughn. Each line builds in syllables - beginning with one and ending in 10. Let me know if you give it a go.