'Hushed' by Laura Cooney

 

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?