She plays at being a poet,
the garret not too tall,
while the mermaids and princesses
and cowboys and mimes,
the bakers and seducers,
dance and yell and play close by.
True nature is a ball of light,
a river of love,
a diverse sameness flowing through it all.
Under the masks,
the light peeps through,
the poet rests in her observations.
Come and play,
whispers the princess,
motions the mime.
Play, and come, grins the seducer,
the cowboy.
Swim with us, gurgles the mermaid.
Taste it, the baker offers.
Even as the garret melts,
she lingers at the edge,
amazed by her own reluctance
to join the game,
her fear of jumbled costumes freely given.
Is she waiting for the next invitation?
When the children all gather with outstretched hands?
Children don’t play like that.
There is freedom in the circle,
a loose binding,
a jumping wildness,
no leader in shared rhythms.
Light refracted,
bent light moving through each prism,
or bouncing off the leaves
or mermaid scales
or cowboy hat
… colour blossoms through the bending.
Play with masks and costumes,
clutter up the games,
notice where you’ve lingered at the edges;
welcome you into belonging.