what would it mean
to breathe a life
of imagination?
colors would bleed
from my fingers,
unfurling wildflowers
would burst
from where my bare feet
have stepped.
and inside? –inside me
there would be a forest
no voice could penetrate
which I did not let in
which was not welcome.
the solemn green lushness
of it would
cocoon me
lifting me to fly on
whisper soft wings
dark and sunshaft woven
into the fabric of me.
a song made ephemerally
solid, spearing gently
through the trees.
– 2/6