Who

Last week's topic was "Who I Am":

in albums, I am tucked away in plastic,

lips perpetually caught between

the curve of a smile and the perfect ‘o’

of astonishment; wonder, now a stranger

in books, I sit near weathered edges

watching words wind themselves

into life, into people, into laughter

watching words watch me carefully

in sentences, an overused semicolon

fusing clauses instead of causes

hanging uncertainly, as you wonder

how long to pause, how long to linger

on roads, I am a yellow dashed line

no peeling paint will fill these gaps

nor should it; rain falls through gaps

not solid lines. You switch lanes.

on the shoreline, I am a bent tree,

a phototrope thirsty for my God,

growing up, sideways, realizing

growth is the only route to the Divine.

in the sky, an unnamed constellation

a set of silent stars, dimly lit but glowing

shape formed by those who lie on grass

and speak to the beauty of a dark sky.