Self

Someday, I will grow silent.
The sound will stop in its gut and my mouth will sew itself.

I'll grow tired of the table, of watching you talk,
my hands will turn to 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
myself,

I will sprout violets
                     you cannot see.