my way
is the way of words
but i am
no writer, no poet, no scholar.
i feed on words
like a zebra
feeds on grass.
i am the yellow soul
inside the daffodil
transforming sunlight
into wordy color,
saving my speech for
golden afternoons & dawn.
when darkness comes,
i wait for the muse
in the song of the
nightingale.
so here i am,
an articulate image in
a dream of flowers, &
all i want to do is
glow.