I’m a well-made vessel, a temple really,
but aren’t we all? Turned by our maker’s hand––
each circle and ring of wisdom––hard earned.

I am shaped to point skyward:
to dreams, other realms. Galaxies.
All the spaces I hold within.
How does one hold the uncontainable?
Be born a poet and a mystic,
a curious unknowable being.
Windows opened to the cosmos,
beauty and sorrow flowing in and out.

I’m fire-kissed, a two-toned earthen dwelling.
Some say too lofty, but really, I’m just aloof,
a loner who hides behind walls of my own making,
a fortress to guard against attack.

I’ve been left for dead so many times. I had to rescue myself
with love by bidding me to rise. Bloom anyhow,
as a self-determined sunflower. I yearn

not to have to be on guard,
but to be open, not so far up and away—
to be seen as a worthy edifice—wholly held.