If I was the type to cross-stich
or embroider
or whatever sewing type thing
it is when you create samplers
mine would say,
So much fucking potential.

If I painted or sketched,
laid down lines 
and sensuous curves,
my canvas would herald
a dusty, sealed jar
high upon an odd and ends
cluttered shelf,
just enough out of reach
to make me need
a step stool to bring it down. 

Since I’m an occasional poet,
mainly in June,
a mood will sometimes 
strike me hard enough
that words linger in my mouth
trying to be swallowed
yet somehow rising up
behind my eyes
sparkling stars
that I breath to life.