Based upon the prompt to write like William Stafford in a workshop in honor of his birth centennial.
I breathe in light
I sleep in color
I dance with design
Yet I paint not
I freeze with paintbrush in hand
Scissors slide flesh not paper
Glue melds fingers to clothing
Paint drips on my feet
I begrudge the masters of brush
Of pen that licks paper black
Of knives birthing beings from wood
Of fingers creating clay creatures
I aspire to be a master of art
Framed, famed, and auctioned
Leaving a legacy of color
As I pass through this world
