I Am

Writing

What am I?
This flesh; these eyes?
Am I the teardrop and the heartache?
Am I the morning dew and the birdsong?
What am I?
This hair; these bones?
Am I the grinding teeth and the suffering?
Am I the rush of wind during the evening storm?
What am I?
This blood; these memories?
Am I the carcass alive with sensation?
Am I the sunlight-dappled wood,
The silver-singing mountain stream,
The petals revealing arcane perfumes,
The foam-skirted tides licking moonlit shores?
What am I?
This vessel; these visions?
Am I the word that makes life in the force of its utterance,
Filling the space and the sky and the sea
With my song?

I am not this memory;
I am not this mind;
I am not this fragile body.
I am not yesterday;
I am not tomorrow;
I am not reflections and dreams.
Look to the heavens and you will find me,
Blazing and ephemeral.
Sink to the depths of ancient waters;
Seek out my truest form.
I am the salt of the earth;
I am dappled sunlight;
I am the four winds dancing through the trees.
Fearfully crafted am I
In birdsong and blood;
Morning mist and whispers;
Shadow and sorrow –
Ecstasy and anguish ever balanced
In the breath of life made manifest.
I am totality;
I am void;
I am this moment:
Ethereal and eternal.

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