At eight years old I’d flee my room.
The Sky’s twinkles; so bright
would shine me with dreams that consume
and captivate with Light.

During midnight I’d sit alone
in a forest deep and thick,
but the quiet Moon’s lasting tone
shone on the darkest stick.

My heavy eyelids beckoned sleep;
my legs frozen and numb,
but my Spirit’s passion would keep
me awake for the scorching Sun.

Botanicals lured my senses,
soft flowers kissed the land,
a rose used its defense,
to prick my soft, milky hand.

My mind lies on the riverbed,
beneath vivacity.
It contemplates what comes ahead
with great audacity.

My lips sing with brown sparrows;
songs colliding with spring air,
piercing the dirt with quick arrows,
like the hooves of a daring mare.

My soul dances with the fall oak
from black trunk to gold leaves,
butchered bark and chimney smoke
that encircles a house’s eaves.

Following pink lights of daybreak
to smeared shades of nightfall,
my ignited heart and soul awake,
encompassing it all.