Hundreds of perfect crystal vases stand empty, overlapping, wavering demanding to be filled. Trapped between so many layers of dream and waking, I sit up, reach for my feet to stretch and wonder was I supposed to find the flowers? How many vases were mine to fill? This has never happened before. You have marked me, have folded back my page in the book, have taken my hand in your small sure grasp, nodded yes child, you must follow. Bent, changed forever, I can not find my place in my own life. If I am to follow, please tell me: is this how it is to be? Do you wake from mirrored halls to blank pages, concede sleep in the name of the word? I have been afraid to say the word poet. It demands a depth of seeing, a softness of foot, a surety of shadow and light I am not ready to claim. Is this how it is to be, then? Am I to live creased by your hand? Again I jump in darkness. I have been running; my legs cry out, begging to be longer. Searching beyond sleep: what have I forgotten? What have I left undone? Waiting, stretching through darkness and dream. Too many mirrors. I needed only to flower the small crystal vase at the center to fill them all.
1 May 2001