The song in me
gets larger and larger.
I have so many songs to sing.
Some, I wrote for others.
Some, I gave only to her,
sunset and dawn.
I wrote carousals for birthdays.
Prayers, for those
who needed prayers.
Some, to pound drums with.
And some, to weep with,
taste tears.
To be a poet is to be emotional.
To feel lava in your heart.
To rejoice, ringing in laughter.
I put some poems in books
where they can never be betrayed.
Made fun of for their lack of syllables.
And my songs stay silent with me.
My hands tremble
with the weight of words.
Not age, but with the burden
of their notes,
their stories,
rebuffs and atonements.
What age does is rub windows clean.
Look inside places I’ve lived.
Watch people come and go.
Press my fingers on the panes
to feel their hands
pressing on mine,
through the transparency of time.
Sometimes,
the barrier falls away,
and for an instant
I kiss a hand I love,
pen and paper forgotten.
Then I sing the rest of the day,
like a kite caught in the wind.