I feel winged.
Sunlight fills my breath, my lungs. . . .
I’m as blessed as one of Victor Hugo’s
desolate characters in Les Misèrables,
a poet-witness accepted by influential men
despite my vast range of past failures.
I leave with Bernarda’s blessing,
but soon, as I pass the peaceful blue waters
of Lake Xolotlán
and the fuming volcano
called Momotombo,
I begin to wonder
if my small-town rhymes
will ever be eloquent enough
for city dwellers . . .
but I’m fifteen years old, with a star
of hope clasped in my hand, so I keep my eyes
lifted toward the future’s
limitless sky.