Poetry Is My Protest: poem 15

I am too fast to be a writer, 
too slow to be a musician. 
I must be a magician who sleeps between the eye and the hand,
between the seen and the known.
I shift shape with the coming breeze
A tornado, a swirl of crystal-glass or a stirring of my coffee.

Right now, I am the front porch,
silent and en-drenching the rain to seep through my pores
until I too become the rain.
I am the sleight of hand that awakens childhood suspension of disbelief.
While everyone else is asleep
I sneak out of the daily shell 
and recall these quiet hours where our wardrobes call us again to character. 

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