My real name is Nicaragua music, dancing on glowing shorelines.
My feet are quietly yellow, hiking horizons and silver linings to new homes.
My thoughts are eight chefs working all at once,
pushing out choices for me to choose from.
I eat them up like lilac tomatoes, remarkably sweet and so deceiving.
My thoughts follow a linear solitude path, ending at the sea.
The excited water laps at my toes,
drawing me out to the nothing laughter.
My dreams are purposefully seventeen,
as if riding in on glimmering waves from distant seas.
Blue peace guides me while riding into the unknown.
Once there, I sing cello butter songs in whispering tones,
then louder,
louder,
until I can no longer hear the wind.
I am hopeful, slowly hopeful,
skipping stones to test the rivers.
I am circular, deeply circular,
looking for new beauty on worn out roads.
I am the mother dove, crafting a bed for my wandering heart.