We are each called in our own way.
My child, mind like a countryside, was born on a misty summer evening. 
Sun long gone by the time she was truly in my arms. 
Small thumps along the window pane. Flickers in the humid night.
Lightning bugs mark a welcome path for her, 
glimmer to illuminate her eyes, even in the darkest times.
My child protected. 

As a child, I would sit on just-rained cement.
Knees up, arms hugging my shins. 
Sometimes I waited full minutes for a trail of ants to begin
or a baby frog to jump across.
Still today, small winged creatures find me. Sitting on my morning papers,
walking across the dusty windshield. Nameless beauties
on my shoulder or palm. I let the wind move through me.
I let this change me.
Jo Reyes Boitel is a poet, playwright, essayist, arts activist, rabid music listener, researcher, percussionist, and Texas transplant by way of Minnesota, Florida, Mexico, and Cuba.

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