Above is 'Le Reve' by Picasso, and to the right is 'The Ballerina' by Cezanne
The penguins in Patagonia
are mysteries to me,
all of Europe evades.
I did not become the ballerina
I dreamed of becoming,
I failed to take one superstep
down the catwalk beckoning me.
My lifelong, loving companion
has not yet arrived,
and neither are my composed words
soul-tinged compared with Dickenson's.
I have, though, held time
in my hands and shaped it. . .
gave it wings. . . let it rest.
I have held one billion snowflakes
in my gaze - and knew their number.
I don't try to chalk the sun
or give a phrase to every thought.
I like to know that others, too, let alone
the souls of things.