Superbly fitting, how they judged her
for her lack of skill; did she not have a heart,
an ear, an eye, a chair, a story to tell-
a voice unread, unseasoned?
A masterpiece is not aware
of imperfection, the soiled hand
a message from the fields, a crooked back
reminiscent of the winding hills
that suffer nothing
for their scattered paths.
The taste of soil cannot be captured
by the pen; beauty of the ink distinctly
rising from within. While strangers read
the seamless novel and writers, write
the flawless word ... the poet prays
for un-assembled dreams.
