I am an admirer

of people who make things.

They show up on my doorstep in cursive letters

and even knock without notice sometimes.

They put aside routine

to satisfy an urge and

I hear it in eagerness downstairs

drumming as my sweet daughter sleeps beside me somehow.

It is a gift of butterflies

fluttering alive in me,

flying about until I decide to open my middle

and make the art that pulses in me.