What makes a burgeoning storm cloud
And its loud, buffeting winds
Kindle a sound inside my bones?
Or a bright sunny day
Evade my woes
And slowly slip
A soft wisp of a kiss
Briskly into my heart?
Or even a steadfast tree
See me and wave hello
—As I walk below its bows.
It is not I.
And that fact fills me with wonder
—Brimming, overflowing, wonder—
That spills forth as a wash that sloshes away
All my petty cares
And there, left behind
Is the fine residue of magic.
I breath in and breath out
It is not I I breathe.
And every step,
Every looming morning
Promises the coming
Of an uncanny goodness
I can neither create nor imagine.
It does not belong to me
I do not control
And it is for that reason it can be
