My Accent

It is charming.
I assure you,
I assure myself;
and choose to believe so.

Languages have colors.
I want to show you my tender blue.
But you cut off with fork and knife,
quicker than my chopstick taps.

My accent grows trees,
trails and winding roads to
west coast landscape.
It points to the open sky;
yet clouds are too heavy
and form raindrops.

My papers collect them
then dry in silence.
I have hesitated many times
before speaking;
now it develops teeth.
Even with gaps between,
I decide
…this is my voice.