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.
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,
Lightning bugs mark a welcome path for her,
glimmer to illuminate her eyes, even in the darkest times.
My child protected.
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.
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
walking across the dusty windshield. Nameless beauties
on my shoulder or palm. I let the wind move through me.
I let this change 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.
