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Transformation by Lelia Thomas

Seasons changes; come so crisp and cold,
Flashes of autumn—red, orange, and gold—
A birth to thin winter ice, straight stark white;
Sunshine above reflects purest light.

This season has changes to make me anew.
I am the poet. I am the painter.
The writing, the art, piercing through.

And I am a woman formed of murky waters.
My sight so ancient, so incongruous with youth,
Is a part of the seasons and the art of life,
A strand of sound, as drummer and the fife.

Earth has coughed me up from the depths
Like a cracked shell upon a dirty shore
A writer, a singer, a painter of lore.

And I am a woman of a wandering heart.
The seasons, shifting, twisting, have made me so
To take me where I must doubtlessly go,
To write my words and paint my pictures.

This season has changed to make me anew.
I am the poet. I am the painter.
The writing, the art, piercing through.

Details

Written in 2004.