My words cannot be professional
actors in a play that I direct,
as child actors are not legally
permitted to work seven
days a week, and such
a production would need
at least that much
rehearsal time.

My words are not yet grown.

They appear at counterpoint
to my thoughts, single notes opposite
the hundred-piece orchestra of my emotions,
bashfully attempting to express the essence
of an eight-part harmony in a simple progression
of notes flowing, one to the next, each
tremulous, uncertain, both
hopeful and despairing.

They are the child trying to finger-paint the Mona Lisa
with the clumsy hands of a toddler -
they do not even have the skill to hold the paintbrush.

I nudge those children paralyzed by stage fright
out from behind the curtains,
up to the center of the stage
where under your gaze, your eyes
as you fill the seats, they
will attempt to act out
Shakespeare in the stumbling
cadence of second graders, to dance
the choreography meant
for a prima ballerina with their inept,
faltering steps, and I will love them for it.

I will love them for their endeavor
to convey to you, my audience
filling the seats of this theater, the design
I had created within my mind.

I will love them for their missteps, the dissonant
notes that were not in the sheet music, the colorful
fingerprints they leave all over the kitchen table.

They have not performed my intended purpose, yet
they have made me happy just the same.