All My Imperfections

The woods I walk each night are lit

by thunder bugs. Their soft bodies,

tiny lanterns, emit a slight now-green-

now-yellow glow.

The trees here are friendly creatures —

they cast shadows only of themselves.

They know what I’m in search of

and sway with pleasure when I find it —

a portrait of all my imperfections.

See my dress, a magnificent, wicked red,

my hair, a tattered raven; my feet,

dropped and bare; my wings patched;

my back arched; my flight unsettled —

look, this is who I am, my authentic self.

I carry my portrait to the forest edge,

to deligh