'A' FOR ME

If I were,
were an artist,
I'd sweep across in a firm flourish.

If I were a sculptor,
of truth and tales,
life would lend itself.
To my chisel,
my carvings of being,
to the comfort of my contradictions.

If I could sing,
songs worth humming when teeth fall,
I'd scale heights that scare.

If I were,
My words would be.

When images disperse,
notes falter,
and black could well be white,
the alphabet meets the acrobat.
Back, forth, and in between,
it strings itself into being.

Becoming beckons.

Calendar of Being

Today, we make
memories of tomorrow.
To recall, the day after.