This Person

This Person:

The Writer-

Pushing her fingers gingerly through the grey clouds and stepping out of the way as words

Open up,

Tumble down the unfolding ribbons of

Silk and whimsy.

The Present Person-

Who suspends herself in the ethers of-

Where?

The Flexible Person-

Folded forward and embracing

Pain, pregnant with an unwavering backbone,

Sweating out the barriers and the solidity of

What’s not moving with her or

Ambling across her vision.

The Artist-

Who decides what mistakes to stick in her pocket and

Refine into what others can choose to understand-

Or not.

This Person:

Who is blessed by the birds and the

Movement of her toes and the

Uprisings that are hard to escape when the

Truth is told.

Yes-

There is gold in the

Cat’s scratching and the

Lone flower, proud as a

Soldier honorably discharged from the Garden of Eden, and the

Crumbling leaves under the boots of

What’s Bigger and Louder but not necessarily more

Aware-

And the fear that makes us move,

Shiver,

Shake it off-

And the angry conversations with God concerning

Blame and

Shame and

Where are you’s because

Hey,

She can handle it-

And there are no walls to this box anyway.