I will be a compass rose.
I will be Orpheus, the singer.
I will be Harriet Tubman,
acquainted with the night.
I will be Sojourner Truth.
I will not lie.

I will be a vine
growing toward the light.
I will be the eye
of the potato,
sprouting legs and arms
to carry on towards the light.

I will be the color purple.
I will be sunrise and sunset
and the thunderstorm in between.
I will be hope.
I will serve and empower.
I will not protect.

I will be the oak,
casting off her mighty acorns …
May they roll towards the light.

I will be the eye
of the camera,
the lens that takes in light
and transforms light waves
into an image,
waves now stilled.

I will be an arm
to ply the river;
my pencil, a rudder
to steer past sirens.

I will be the bend
in the road;
time does not fly
straight as an arrow.

I will be a sounding wall,
silent until you call;
your voice, a gift
I return to you,
an echo
to steer home by.

I will take what you give me
and I will give it back
a thousand times over.
I will be an acorn
who multiplies the seed.

I will be a compass rose.
Move me and I will
spin in your hand
back towards “go,”
my needle singleminded
as a flock of geese or cranes,
restless, until they rest in you.

I will be the wing
that muscles the storm,
curving like time,
slope of weathered rock.

I will be the eye
of the sewing needle,
stitching ten thousand miles
and yet never leaving your hand.
I will be a hand opened,
a pen uncapped.
I will be Augustine’s heart and quill—
restless, until I rest in you.


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