Why do I write such poetry, and then become ashamed of it?
Why do I express myself in flourishes, and then gag upon my words?
What is it about my playful spinning that relieves pain in one nerve, but probes another?
I have not named each of my butterflies, nor have I loved them all.
Some I swear are spiders, indeed, I own them as well. But even them I don’t all recognize.
I have spurned some colored wings, and grown squeamish at the sight of legs.
Others I have watched from childhood, dancing with them in the wind,
Calling them to my side for comfort, rejoicing in their patterns and their Maker
In my hands sit joy for others, gently cradled, less vulnerable than I imagine.
One by one they must be paraded out,
Oh, do not let their wings fly in your face,
They were made to be beautiful, these little gifts of energy,
Made for you, and I
April 16, 2012
I wrote this when I learned to sing again. Oh, I had never forgotten how to sing completely. What I had forgotten was how to let myself be myself. As a small child I had made up little songs and sung them softly whenever I felt like it, but then I grew afraid. I was 18 before I let myself do it again.
