5-28-15
No soy la chascona
The wind shares the
awkward grace of seed pods.
Hemmed, I may observe
but not create.
Mine is a pithy basket,
permutations without replacement.
A path is made so I may walk it.
A verb is pressed into use
A wing is created so that
I may see from above.
Dandelion optimism is the color of my season
My umbrella will be seen
as an instrument for rain,
not of a novel shape.
Some may fabricate clusters of appreciation;
I can only people the perimeter.
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