I am the voice in my head.
I am the voice asking this, yes? Is that true?
Pointing inward, the voice coalesces, solidifying unto itself.
The voice is mute, and I listen beyond.
I am the spread of spring under the morning frost.
the curve of grapevine shimmering in ecstatic worship
the joy boom of stillness behind it all
the molten drops of sun dripping though viburnum petals,
branches strewn in glory
I am the spread of heart, entwined in the morning.
Am I this voice, here, asking this question?
The voice is mute and I listen beyond.