I’m not her. I never will be.
Because—
I fall into Alice’s hole,
where painting the sky is literal.
Three-inch brushes globbed
into pails of purples, blues, and yellows,
streaking dawn into being.
Where the hose’s nozzle,
spraying its lazy arc across the garden,
casts a rainbow—
a portal
to the dimension of fairies,
and giants,
and play.
I smell like clouds.
I sound like quiet.
I speak—
and it comes out in riddles.
Not to be clever,
but because it lives on the edge
of falling—
where who we are
is always
reflected.
Love, Me
Going On 40 