Again you visit me –
Reminding me of the bright light
cast by night stars, and the wings
I chose to plant in the earth.
Ignoring their weight on my shoulders,
I could have spread them hawk-like
and lifted, lifted high above the womb
that holds me.

A blood line runs through
the roots of the birch trees.
Where black and white merge in
companionship. Where all lives
in harmony. Where peace exists.

I dig deep to trace the blood line
of my beginnings. Someone with
brown eyes is my ancestor. Eyes
as brown and dark as the soil
I planted my wings in.

the lines and curves that make
letters that make words that make
phrases and sentences

reach deep inside
become keys for locked doors
ladders to reach rooftops
porches to watch sunsets from
gates to walk through
stages for drama
and confessional boxes

where stories told

break sentences
into phrases
into words
into letters
into lines and curves

where writers are born

behind locked doors
sitting on porches
climbing rooftops
swinging on gates
standing on stage
and in confessional boxes

where lines and curves
become life.