Sometimes I feel like a stranger to myself.

I have a new dwelling.

A signature of the third phase of my life

is scrawled all over my walls

constantly transformed by the inner stirrings

of my desire to blend in

with the rustling of the leaves,

with the misty air carrying jewels hardly seen,

with the silent rocks witnessing my contemplative quest.

I exchange glances with magpies seeing me

seeing them ferreting worms to feed their young.

I have windows everywhere for looking

at life in the raw, and I see a mirror

reflecting my soul’s eye and my dreaming,

unrestrained from stepping into the mystery

of a vast unknown.

I am a stranger to my old self.