For Who I Am

Naked trunks stand sentinel In the dead of silence where I was born. Softly, snow drifts in the early hour, My First Hour, Blinding me to the truth of who I could be. Freezing, bare, I scurry from tree to tree, Clinging. Grasping at the Winter wind for clues as to what I’m so afraid of. Crackling and plopping urges me on and quicker and quicker I run. The snow melts and the trees clothe themselves Various shades and hues of fire and embers assault me. Wings flutter and the Owl cries my question to all in this; My Second Hour, Searching endlessly through the lies of who I might be. Still chilled and bare, I hurry from tree to tree, Still clinging. Searching in the Fall air for answers as to why I’m so afraid. The flutter of wings and leaves Urges me on so faster and faster I race. Trees thin and disappear where corn has grown and burned Ghosts and remnants of healthier times stand weathered and bent. Husks that still stand tall reach alone for the sky in this, My Third Hour, Beseeching the creator for the truth of who I will be. Warmed by my exertions, I jog through the field, No longer clinging, Hunting in the Summer breeze for reasons as to how I could have been so afraid. Warmth and exhaustion Slows me down so slower and slower I walk. Corn is gone and the gently rolling land is new and fresh The grass is green and high above my head where I lay to rest. With a sweet blade between my teeth I enjoy this, My Midnight Hour, Because my travels have taught me who I AM. Arms stretched above me, Content in this Spring meadow-land that I am not afraid. Soft grass and singing crickets Lull me deeper and deeper to sleep.