— Millicent Kellogg
I steal a ray from the morning sun
pocket a ripple from the crooked creek
I capture a wave of the Pacific tide
and make off with a gust of wind.
It is not enough
I rob a leaf from a slumbering tree,
run off with a sunflower petal
I pluck the down from overhead geese
and poach a dandelion adrift in air.
I need still more
I cradle a tear of rain in my palm,
stuff a cloud in the cuff of my jeans.
I reap the notes of the caroling moon
and keep for myself the colors of twilight.
Perhaps these will do
I gather the whispers of love
sweep up the fragrance of rose
I corner the warmth of lapping flames
and harvest the shadows of rice
I loot these things and carry them home
to caress and hold up to the light.
I am a thief—immensely rich—
in love with plundering the earth.