A procession, unbalanced,
sways upon my cords.
My pen's rearrangement
continues to incense me.
Inevitability states that my name
will never become hallowed,
but I wish for a grace
to touch hearts
leaving an imprint
deep inside.
Someone special to me heard my plea
before I ever uttered a single word.
She pulled tight on broken strings
and tied them lovingly into pretty bows.
Resignation of thought
was dangling there
but with persistence,
my master of marionette
maintained her impression
and gently guided my hand
in the art of "polish."
"To concede challenges nothing,"
my very own Ghepetto said.
"Pieces of work will only develop along with you."
I am not a puppet.
I am the receiver
of kind instruction, dipped
sweetly into golden glitter,
the kind that transforms a heart
with one single solitary suggestion,
to stand beating on the outside.
My mentor, my Ghepetto.
She means more to me than words.
One day, I hope
within a heart that yearns to
create the absolute in FLY- paper,
she will cut my strings,
blow into the wind
my name,
and, beside her, I will soar.
For Barbara Quanbeck, always teaching,
always encouraging, making me believe in "someday"
I love you, my Ghepetto.
