My Secret Room

(Poetry) I was strong enough to climb the pruner’s rope left idle in the cypress tree.

The following poem was written in a workshop held by Dorianne Laux in response to the prompt “When were you born as a poet?”

Photo by Annie Hendrix

I ran barefoot toward the setting sun

rays cast across the wild wheat

covered with wet plumes of frothy spit bug spittle,

my hands so soft and little

ripped the seed heads from the grasses

while my brothers pulled the weeds from the root

I was strong enough to climb the pruner’s rope

left idle in the cypress tree,

and clamored to the top of my secret room in the canopy

to gaze at the Western sun

as it draped the grazing horses, cows, and sheep

in golden sheets of whatever light is made of

and I didn’t wonder who created this heaven,

this sparkling field of grass and dew

because no one had told me about God

but I knew I had opened a window

and all I had to do was let the light in

Thanks for reading!