The Seashells.

Am I supposed to stay
in between the lines,
run my red crayon around the black edges
on the picture of the mandala,
or a heart,
or a rattlesnake?

Am I supposed
to rip off the paper around the red crayon,
so I can smooth
in the color, gracefully,
as if my rough edges
were meant to be clean,
smell of lavendar and coconut
after a bath,
& the steam disappears into the air?

Am I supposed to always
exist in a prayer
of loving,
as if my hands were meant to be strong,
holding the seashells of thoughts steady
like the way
the sea pushes them to the sandy shore,
waves circle under waves,
circling like these colors
of red
the first tip of a rose
emerging in the green shield of petals
after a spring rain storm, &
the colors bleed
from my mind to my heart
and back again,
until I am drained
onto the page,
so every little piece of me
a part of you?

Copyright 2016 ©  Jessie Wright


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