First Years - napowrimo #5

I am called by poetry's name when I need room to crawl
and explore: dust-maker and wordy-escape.
She twists the edges of hair strands, saws at my fingernails,
begging to be born.
When I nurture her with milky white paper and fruity-smelling
pens, she stops out of fear. She pauses like a cat, cautious
and self-conscious.
After a moment of strategy like first time shoelace tying,
she sighs in relief, and sends windy words down my throat,
they just appear like seeds.
Almost finished, she wants to dress the wicker shelf
like autumn leaves and scattered soil. Afraid
to be jumped in, laughed with, and picked up.
Dust-maker you are;
poetry, you gather dust like apples,
creating your shelter,
escaping from words.