Freckled disability.
An oxymoron in a way.
Puddles from an icy sun.
Its pigment one I’d never change.
It takes ability to cope.
With measles, mumps of being odd.
The semaphores of set apart
like leashes on resenting birds
that take the litter of a dream
and turn it to a worthless dog.

Caveats of riven limbs.
Black bananas on a tree that run
the risk of passing disappointment on
like clouds above a long parade.
I know you see adversity as
sirens on an ambulance.
Leaving ugly tire tracks
like smoking engines of a plane.
The diaper pail of charity is one
I could have done without.
My bones, they never measured up.
Hid for years in sleeping bags
and skirts the size of circus tents.

How I walk. A miracle.
A testament that underneath
lay something stronger than its frame.
All my struggles. Ripples. Stones.
Kodak moments of a wish like
rolls of film exposed to light.
The rara avis of a life that
redefines the shifting sand
between your mortal toes.

by Janet I. Buck