The sky is crayon painted
in swaths of dark blue,
in great messy
arm swings of energy.
“Stay inside the lines”
but I never believed them
even when I was five.
They told my mother
I wouldn’t obey.
Then I wrote poems at six,
exhaled them like breaths,
till my words took wings
and became small birds
that I hid in drawers.
They took them away.
Learning to count was important
and keeping my room neat
and being silent in class.
Image: morguefile.com
