Split, a bit. Kernelled like this pistachio.
I look up at the ghost branches of the near
moonlit tree, gossamer glints in the last moments of gloaming. The buds are
begging to bloom before summer begins.
And, I wonder,
Is this me?
The steam around me floats in tendrils, from
tub to sky. It aspires to be cloud, loch, river, stream or ocean, it does not
matter.
And I wonder,
Is this me?
As the last of the birdsong fades around me and
breeze burgeons to wind. I see myself with you.
De-shelled, on a wide balcony.
There and slide not there. Never there, not
when it matters.
Below us, are alpine valleys, bustling cities
and quiet countryside.
It does not matter.
I am hushed and the hush settles upon my
rushing soul.
And I wonder,
Is this me?
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