But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
******* up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them--
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
The the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

As a child
my hiding places were simple-
a closet, under a bed
easily found, never lost.
Now my hiding places
are far more complicated.
I can hide in my books....
I find safety in my books -
so many books that bring me joy.
But no longer do they bring
me solace.
I hide in my office
at home and work.
with doors shut no one looks in,
content to allow me to hide
behind the click, click - click of keyboard strokes.
I hide behind my mask,
carefully made up,
painted on smile,
no one peeks behind
- I can hide my life away....
And often I find myself lost.