Whispers trail behind me as I walk, br Hands outstretched, clutching little boxes. br 'This one for your thoughts, this for your dreams, br That for the pain you cannot show.' br br br I turn to find them smiling, proffering br Printed labels, each one a tidy word: br 'Fragile.' 'Erratic.' 'Beautiful.' 'Homemaker.' br Demanding I sort myself into quarters. br br br But my spirit billows like the morning fog, br Slipping through cupped hands, refusing consolidation. br I am the breath that fogs the mirror after a shower, br The dandelion seed skating on an endless breeze. br br br So let them collect their boxes, if they must, br Labeling each with letters trim and stark. br I'll be the gust that scatters them all, br Wildly whole, undefined, and stubbornly vast.