Kristin Roedell

until the shape of what I dreamed
grew in me, pressing an imprint
into my weary soul,
that furrowed field,
that silent parking lot.
It gained substance,
filling in as a footprint does in the rain.
I began to speak pomegranates,
scotch broom, sand dollars.
I sprouted wings, I sang,
I shook out my dark corners.
I wore a nimbus of truth
that caused people to sit
away from me.
I saw God in everything:
bald crows asleep on wire,
dandelions in our back yard.
I digressed, I exhaled, I wandered.
It was my fertile soul,
that field of wildflowers,

that moonlit parking lot.