when i was one and fourteen
i knew a woman whose soft hands could make colors fly
wherever she told them to,
covering canvasses and fluttering into human hearts with a
puff
of breath.
a woman of Hope, a woman of Pocatello--
her spine was the trunk of a tree, her mind abundant with fruit
she told me about colors, wild geese, and what it means to be beautiful
she told me to show up, pay attention, tell my truth,
and not be attached to the outcome--
but i was, so much.

i am one and seventeen
i am a woman with soft hands, i speak to colors and make them fly:
they cover canvasses, bodies, and hearts.
a woman of Campbell, a woman of Heron--
i press my back against trees and imagine what it would be like
to have one for a spine.
i know about colors, wild geese, and what it means to be beautiful
i know that i spent years trying to cling
to the slippery, slimy, gelatinous blob that is the future--
it sure is beautiful from a distance.