Call me the butterfly maker, for I the distracted crafter often carves irregular squares from changing planes of vision into visual planes, flying as monarchs migrating home.
Call me the snowflake cloud, for I the cold observer often molds objective droplets from forgotten formalities into memorable figures, coveting as blankets embracing dirt.
Call me the stone sculptor, for I the traveling poet often lifts stone castings from feeble footprints into familiar portraits, beckoning as mothers procuring peace.