Quick poem this morning over coffee:
Who is the I that I am?
The reflection that dances upon the still, solemn lake
Or the lake itself?
The very idea that bound particles in communion long before any knowing of it
By fallible eyes?
Speak not of the tumbleweed but of the
Invisible force that spirits it across barren earth,
Speak not of the stereo
But of the current that makes it sing
Of the wind that catches a falcon’s wing
Lifting it to flight
Look beyond toil of of restless throngs to the force that animates souls
Fuels passion and the stubborn drive to persist
The rage and fury that is life