The cold granite stones beneath our feet made us taller,
Elevating us above the ordinary cobblestones of Post Office Park,
The moon shinning over our pre-pubescent crew of misfits.
One step closer to the sky.
It was on nights such as these that I felt my first creative pangs.
They began as fleeting impressions like witnessing a shooting star,
At first you are not sure of having seen one,
yet there is a sensation of awe that lingers.
Then came the tremors,
electric and charged,
pushing me to put words to the haunting beauty that surrounded me.
I dramatically tried to verbalize what I was experiencing,
the sound of wet snow falling on the churning winter ocean
or the scent of wild roses in a thick salty fog.
By the time the earthquake hit at age 15, I was armed with the art of words.
Poetry became the valley through which I channeled my raw, turbulent emotions.
At the time I did not understand what was happening,
nor the power I had found in my falling;
I would be saved time and time again
by a blue Bic pen and a white wide-ruled notepad.
Life would pull me through twists and turns.
Poetry would make me stay the course.
Hardship would not find me helpless.
I often think of the young girl gazing at the summer stars over Exchange St.,
Sipping a cappuccino at Java Joe’s,
Dreaming of what the future would offer.
Although 6000 miles and a lifetime away,
not much has changed.
I am still dreaming, still longing, still learning
to be, to love, to create…