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.
 

L
It’s a sound you make with your mouth
It’s the first sound of my name
It’s sweet honeysuckle in may
It’s all the best book characters you wish were real
It’s a ice cream in January
It’s choke-and-cry, friend joke laughter.

M
It’s weather so hot you can’t sleep
It’s good food in good company
It’s spicy chili peppers
It’s cozy kitchens in February
It’s sass
It’s big big buildings with too many floors that smell like sawdust, hard work, and music.

S
It’s the type of outdoors adventure you love talking about afterwards, but didn’t like so much in the middle of the action
It’s sentences with lots of commas:
“Can’t stop! In a groove!”
It’s hot sauce
It’s a Coney Island boardwalk
It’s midnight smuggling
It’s a soft plush blanket

F
It’s your dog, the cutest one in the universe (no, I’m not kidding), who also happens to smell horrible