He is the genius
whose first green
has been a rainbow
in a wet bough.
He has released a shy typist
to break barriers
and fight dragons behind minute keys.
I cast to trash
templates of time wasted.
I open up drawers
and share chains
of words
with sisters and brothers
of worlds
never ready before.
My fingers tickle soft keys
in messages of sweet breeze
to hush-hush crowds
atop the clouds.
He is the guy.
He has winged my flight.
On the mirror of a screen
I see my face gleam
As he and I rise upstream.
Photo by Mausilinda
This poem was written as a tribute to Steve Jobs who, with the first MacIntosh made texting a piece of pie for me and many others.
Histórias Misturadas. 
Actually, the skeleton for this poem came to my mind the day Steve Jobs died. I hated typing papers, research proposals, compositions using a typewriter. It was boring even when correcting tapes and erasable paper appeared on the market. The advent of the MacIntosh turned out to be a blessing. I became an Apple fan. Sometimes I ask to myself whether I would like writing so much without the Macs.
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