I have spent my time flying towards the sweeter things in life.
This incessant humming in my head
drives me to work in microscopic details,
collecting powdered bits and pieces of whatever I can
in order to build something bigger than myself.
There are days when I feel that I am nothing more
than a vessel for my work;
my body a hive for words that stick to my insides
and drip from my mouth
glowing and golden.
My stripes are the lines of black font and fortitude
I press into flower petal pages.
They serve as a warning: Beware of Writer.
Be cautious of me, for when I am at work, that’s all I see.
Do not try to stall or stop my wings.
Instead, marvel at the garden I leave behind.
I am a collection of
pastel petals and rich nectar,
along with all the beeswax and elbow grease it takes
to bring them into being.
My buzzing is a sign I am alive and a song of joy.
How happy I am to be at work with purpose
that keeps the world turning.
To pollinate the earth with pockets of words
and whatever optimism I have to offer
is enough to propel me upward.
How glorious it is to kiss the sky.
