Someday, I will grow silent.
Someday the sound will stop in its gut, my mouth will sew itself.
I'll grow tired of the table, of watching you talk,
my hands will turn to the keys, I'll watch them speak.
Picture me as a tree: the mind, the hands
are watering themselves, the leaves will sprout within.
I'm a weather system, my breath's the rain, my eyes the sun, sometimes,
my shoes are clouds.
I may not leave the room that's ok.
I will water
I'll watch the sun come up
in my eyes,
I will sprout violets
you cannot see.