It is possible

that you are the frame, thin and dark around the edges

and most would say you are not the mat, stark, plain,

except you do have a talent for aiming the eye towards

what is significant;

most people would say you are most definitely

the leaves that sway from tender stalks, suspended

in a westbound wind, red hair going green and gold

in becoming;

I, cannot imagine you

as a broken silver egg, but imagine you might see

yourself a casement for the winged wonder plucked

by the beak of an ancient mariner, its eyes open

to shifting sands;

an invisible potion inside a beaker is what you are though,

not the beaker but the liquid inside, and is, is what fills

a painting with maybe, pure research, suspended

feather, stirring each of us to belief.

---for Carol Peters

love, mary

10/10