I dot my i’s and cross my t’s, a perfect ballerina dancing across the page. Graceful as a butterfly soothing like a summer sunset. Sweet, simple, flawless. But already there are scribbles, mispelings, blots of ink and suddenly this perfect canvas is no longer blank. Oh, to write like a wildfire, no remorse or formulaic meter! Just bared wide, torn open displaying my wholeness as us poets so often do.