Where


Am



i


?

Uncertainty divine
Befalls my clotted eyes
And i
(aye not that eye, nor the other I)
Feel my roots
As they grow feathers through the ground.

Finally the world is cracked
And juice of passions secrets out
To irrigate the trunk
That lifts up and sustains
Questions like leaves on a great oak.

And eye for eye
(i, nought that I, but another aye)
The questions multiplied
Because that is what The Planter did decide.

But *I*
(YES that I that eyes the other aye)
Make my perch at the end of the tallest branch
Waiting for a wind
To carry me home.

Home to nothing,
Home to sow what ifs
Home to say
again
that nothing stays the same.
Where


Am



i


?

Does the question beg for mercy?
And what is mercy to a question?
To weave an answer is to make it die?
Or does it, blissful, metamorphosize?

Rut is the rot of roots too long deprived of flight.

Creature of pattern, me?
Only so far as eddies in the breeze
and the secret geometry of falling leaves

P a t t e r n
i s
RELATIVE. (look over here)--------->

And mine (not mine, but mind)
The unchained melody
of endless questions
answered
by
the
wind.