I stumble my way now,
In my sabbatical away from work.
A man, whose daylight hours
Are spent under a roof.
And the sun, Helios, I see him outside,
Still not summoning me.
If I was white, I would be seated
On a beach chair, getting a suntan.
The sun it smiles people say,
The sunny side of a little orb
That burns on his own,
And I, looking at those green
Foliar tapestries in a bout of envy,
Wondering how good it would
Have been to make my own sugars
From carbon dioxide.
To be my own sugar factory.
I’m at home now, I make poems,
Those little words that embellish
A white screen, and unlike
Everything else, I mold the clay
Of my words to an articulation of beauty.
The kiln that my third eye is,
Making sculptures that when
Arranged in sentences, gives
The sweetest indulgence.
As if there’s a tongue inside my mind,
Lapping the beauty on offer.
The flow and ebb of poetry,
And I’m both Poseidon,
And the child on the beach.
