How is it I am made?
A single thought, as I approach the zenith years.
Still urgent like when I was searching
as a young man for answers and questions
that some say they had but nothing really held.
This body is ancient and still being made.
And there is movement, a flow in me,
for nothing stays as it were, all is present
but not present at all.

I know I am me, me I am, caught up at a point
in the world, struggling with insufficiency
but I am sufficient enough, or so I tell
myself, and haunted by this world of
strangeness, strangers and the strangling
of people for gain, and knowing that this
planet blue, so large, so small, is everything
and nothing in the scheming of the universe
of which I am a part but a fragment of all.

How, then, am I made?
In parts or a whole?
This mystery has drawn pens across
posturing ages of compounded thought
that is intriguing I am told
but hardly enough, for I am heading
to the Zenith of this life and I will be
remade again into the mystery that is
life and the universe, turning around
and around and around and
over the hill and far away.

 

11/8/2026