“A morning glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.” – Walt Whitman
I delight in me. I dote on me, but what is me?
Sound of airplane is me.
Tread of tires across a road is me.
Two shoulders tired of throwing frisbees to an Aussie Shepherd.
Coffee and cream down this throat.
And the sunlight through a glass on the patio table.
Yesterday’s lunch. Me?
The dew dripping from a folded umbrella.
Power tools in the distance starting a project too early.
The birds gone quiet.
The memory of a barn owl at Crystal Cove.
A universe of false nothings on an iPhone covered in apps.
A dog smelling like a horse.
Graphite scratching from a pencil.
An anticipation of cheese and deviled eggs for breakfast.
The shadow of a crow crossing the sunlit lawn.
All of it completes this particular version of a me.
None of it adds up to a person.
None of it exists. . . since it’s already gone –
Pushed aside for the next batch of magic.