To Whom Do I Speak?

I am of the human race, so vast, so vacant.
I am of the first world, but of the only Earth.
I study the complexities of apparent reality
        at St. Michael’s.
I am slender
Weak of hand, strong of mind.
Independent, smooth and gentle.
The crisp light of a distant star, one upon trillions,
          yet still distinct, silent, ancient, watchful,
I am not of the dead who wander in the corpses of the living.
I am a son
            kin to all.
I am of steady gaze, of the earth and ashen sea.
I am the winter wind, fresh and fast and cold.
I am the gentle, distant warmth of the sun’s pale finger.
I am the halting crawl of fear that seeps from deepest flesh.  
I am the ever tender touch of cat’s contented purr,
         the first flower of spring in a sunken field
         the last touch of day at dusk
         the only plane on a cloudless sky.
I am the soft and cool cloak of fog and mist on a lonely
          winter’s morning.  
I am the pull of a cold stream deep in the woods,
          pure and unrelenting.
I am the ever constant call of moonlight
          pushing deep into the skull.
I am more than
                                          to be.

And more than


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