Big or small
I like to give the gift of giving
Sometimes it's more a gift for me than for them
'It's the thought that counts'
People scoff, they say,
"Too sentimental!
You're mental!"
I know I'm mental.
I like to get a thing or two,
I won't try to hide that fact.
But 
In fact
This or that
I like to give things, too.
The 
Anticipation
The
Elaboration
Of the gift
Seeing their happy face
Gives me a happy face.
So give and get,
Get and give,
Take you're share,
There's more to live
Than just genorosity
But give out genorosity
"Get your genorosity!"
I've got lots to spare,
So share!

The owl looked at me.
I don't think he saw me
sitting in the silver car twice as old as me.
Watching it
I was worried.

The owl was trying to free his foot
I thought,
the little talon looked stuck
in a hassock of weeds
on the side of the empty, thoughtless road.
So he didn't see me
sitting in my puffy blue coat I complain about.
He was worried.

The owl flapped frantically as we drove carelessly by,
a few thoughts passing through my numb head
until I saw that splash of off-white feathers.
I don't think he saw me
sitting in the front seat,
an old novelty now.

The owl was alone
when we slowed to a stop.
We weren't sure what to do,
try to help him?
Call a game warden?
I was worried
but I don't think he saw me
because he was even more worried.

The owl had eyes
a million miles wide
and deep

Bounce
Bounce
Bounce
Against the concrete
Ware
Tare
Bounce a little more.
The orange disk flies
From hand to feet
Bounce 
Repeat
Bounce
Repeat.
Bounce out the mad and angry
Bounce
Repeat
Bounce
Repeat
Leave it on the sidewalk
Let it stick to some one else's shoe.
Bounce, bounce Repeat.
Pound against the worry
Pound against the fear
Bounce
Repeat again.
Bounce up and down
Faster and faster
Lift up the corners of the line on your face
Bounce
Bounce
Bounce again,
Bounce again.
All that's left of the orange heat
(Bounce head to feet)
Is this neon 
Basket
Ball.

I know I am a writer
Because I love to write
It's the thing I (sometimes) know I was meant to do.
I know I am a writer
Because when I play piano
I unconsciously am thinking up stories
About the different notes
And I realise
Once I've played the piece for the millionth time
Halfway through.
I know I am a writer
Because when I do math
I do the same thing
The numbers are my friends 
I pity them and rejoice in their joy
The world of algebra
peopled by those friends of mine.
I know I am a writer
Because I sometime narrate my life in my head
Not always
But sometimes.
I know I'm a writer
because occasionaly when someone says something
I add my own ending to their words, to the paragraph in the book that is my life.
I don't know I'm a writer
Because there are so many other wonderfull things to do
And sometimes I get overinthusiastic

I put on my too-small boots
I haven't worn them in a year
I put them on for you.
I tramped through the forest
Just to find those berries
I was only enthusiastic for you.
I scratched myself and didn't mind the pain
Only for you.
I stayed up half the night
Boiling those sweet smelling plants
Just for you
For your pleasure
I walked across those kitchen floor boards hundreds of times
Back and forth
Trying extra hard to remember
All the things I forgot
I gave up time
I could have spent
With you
I'll be spending it with dishes my sister should be washing
But I'll know
I did it for you.
For you
So that I could walk through the aisles of frozen food,
Feet aching
To find just the right ingrediants
For my love letter cooked 
From my heart to your rude
Mouth
I paced back and forth
I was panicked and frazzled
Trying to remember

They
Are the people who have control
The people that no one ever explains
Because it's just so obvious
To no one, when you come to think of it.
They 
Have brilliant ideas
And are terrible Tyrants
And
No one knows who
They are
 

Aspire to be
Your best you
It's too hard
 

 

Small girl walks
forward,
to take her turn at last,
to quench her thirst.

Small girl wears
a dusty white rag, dirty and ripped from it's journy.

Small girl looks
like a dust moat fairy,
hair in a featherlight knot of dust, feet in a layer of dirty dust, face and arms and legs covered 
in
dust.

Small girl feels
tired
thirsty
dry 
sore
craving water
dusty.

                  Dust
                                      
                              
                                              settles



                                                                               down.
 

I come from New York to Vermont.
I come from Vermont to Vermont.
I come from others.
Icome from myself.
I come from fear to courage
I come from courage to achieve
I come from imagination, into a whole new world.
I come from the deep, up and up,
ready to breath the air.