I can’t draw
the shadows of the night,
compose music
of wind rhapsody,
sculpt the way
the world shapes a hill,
work the innate
geometries of wood.
Yet,
I am my own truth.
I own a kind of poetry.
I want every atom inside me
to be sky and earth,
color, coloring its places.
Clay, shaped within my hands
for pots, to hold flowers,
and sculptures standing
where my heart stands.
Lips shaping words
for songs that need singing.
Then I will be
what I’m meant to be,
a lark,
listening to its poet.