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.