To possess an artist’s canvas I make space upon my wall and put up something crafted so well and is so bold it never gets old. An artist has the whole world upon which to hang. Her most prized possession is new canvas or a person or a new tatoo.
We grow own sorrow or joy; the greatest joy is we grow our own.
At wit’s end, wisdom was my only friend. Difficult, heavy, I clung to it as it pulled me through the water, sea waves endlessly crashing into my face. Now I pick up little pieces and hide them under my pillow, undeposited. I dream of the day when I trade it all in for a ticket out of here — out from under the city into the sunlight, walk into the country to find the home I never knew: wisdom light as a smile.
Of this vast, radiant universe, I am of but one star. Would the panoply be precious strewn were not each glimmer a signal of richness? Of the multitude of criaturas on this round world, I am but one being. Would humanity be a proud species were not each a beacon? I count my cells, my breaths, my sunrises and sunsets, my schemes and dreams, my depths and feelings, my world that I take up and embroider. Each human is created from other humans, each star from stars. I have craved to be more human, more starry. I let it be and the riches without are become within. I beg no more. Let me digest what I partake in.
Those indiscretions I was so careful to demur, they are for the taking. The paltry world bursts into color. My so-called evil is humane life. Everything is good like it should be. My heart grows in this soil. The evil name-calling drove me to starving; I was desperate enough to take what ill-suited me. What suits me is enough; perhaps everything in its own place.
Universe, thank you for the flash flood that canceled the trains that got me back to the metro where I find myself as the sunlight streams sitting behind two young friends one with a freckled shoulder bare but for straps, black camisole over scarlet bra, and a head whose mane is wild multi-colored orange, and the other saying “I have seen a lot of things, too…” from the back of her neck’s tattoo.
At the forest’s edge the sky is half stars, half a fête of fireflies. I tread step-by-step into the darkness and there is silent celebration. A glow streaks beside me as high in the branches pulse living lights. At the darkest spot, I stop and gaze; the path opens to the sky; layers of trees quietly host spectacle.