At four I scrawled across
the white-washed basement wall,
my first poem in bold
black grease pen,
a high point followed by
a long dipping plateau,
circles curving over
and over themselves,
feeling the absolute flow
of round.
The artist intently involved
with her creation,
the rough prick
of the cement surface,
the rhythm of each
primitive letter,
it must have said
this is me.