I’m high and low pressure systems
forming a cyclone over still water.
I’m an alternation, a series of changes,
A nomad with sand on my heels from
every corner of this nation.
I’m green, magenta, sunny yellow,
cerulean, and turquoise;
but most of all—I am Black.
So don’t look at me, then attempt to
test that.
I’m a child in constant wonder.
I’m the pilgrim and the chief,
the tree and every one of its leaves,
the occasional low, thick cloud
or a forgotten rain puddle, filling
the ground.

A lover, because I’ve fought;
a winner, because I’ve lost.
I am different, in that I am everyone;
I am the difference, in being the sum.

I’m the fruit of ripe relationships,
the mulch of those that have soured,
the taste to make your lips pucker,
the voice to uplift you, to empower.
That song with a melody easy to forget,
but with words that penetrate—
That dream you can’t quite remember,
but with sensations you can’t escape—
I’m a string of ideas, of art,
of symphony. Minor chord progressions
of the highest order,
a dissonant masterpiece.