I am the dust on moon that’s never blown over
but remains.
I am the powdered wings of the dead moth.
I am the water in a rock pool, still, with knowing
awaiting the tide to wash over salted strains.
I am the silence between the strings of harp.
I hold all potential
to the glint of light
on water,
before it shimmers.
I am the immovable mind that which takes care
and hushes and consoles the noise of trampling thought explosions.
Inside.
I am the mind that sees in a mirror
that which smiles back, with sadness and recognition.
I am.