When my saddle shoes were too big
so they might last beyond the year
I ran away from home
where yelling to be heard by the unheard
rattled in my skull; burial ground of secrets.

One foot met the other
like long lost friends
awkwardly skipping their way
into Saturdays, towards stacked
protective fortresses from
childhood’s dark labyrinths;
where underestimated
eyes of innocence
found immortal truths
understood more deeply
than the tall ones
with sour faces
who had dropped their smiles
on brutal roads of hunger,
on endless days of
earning just enough
from tightened fists
that grabbed too much.

The library door
where I found my Narnia.
Where I fell in love with Emerson.
Where I read Chinese women poets
and wrapped myself
in the silk of words,
of punctuation strung like pearls
stitching together the stops, the starts,
the questions, the breaths,
the echoes and exclamations unleashed
from a soul so new to the world,
so old to life.

Where I stood on tippy toes
to find the vast longings
of human history;
to find myself
gathering lost smiles
into dreamscapes of resilience.
Musty books perfumed my imagination.
Crisp new books fell open
in my tiny hands
like tomorrow’s gold that promised
there would always be enough
in the temple where anything
is possible.

Where now, pressing into
Winter’s whim I am consoled
by the Velveteen Rabbit.