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.