I wouldn’t say I am a
mosaic of the people I
surround myself with,
nor a quilt woven of
threads of heart.

Nor am I a window of stained
glass, yet instead, I am
the colors of light that shine through.

For each person to me
is a pigment,
and together we crush rocks
and weave together grains
of sand,

Creating the glass that others look through.

My hands are rosy and opalescent,
learned of love to stay soft
and hold quietly.

My collarbones shine like
leaves in the forest,
their light a reminder that
roots will always be tangled,
no matter what the surface brings.

My ears reflect a
golden musicality, and
that light brightens all the rest,
those who see me, hear music,
and know it is gold.

My head is pooling with sky blue,
as well as the looking glass in my eyes.
This light is blinding, this one I
cannot escape. Poems are written
in the beams and I cannot see myself
without reading them.

And my heart of people,
of their laughs, the unique tightness
of individual embrace.
Light of the sun explodes through,
and with luminosity comes
the knowledge—

For all who have seen my translucence
know the hands that created it.