I won’t find myself
when I’m looking for who I am.
My mind is not the place
from which to understand
what number represents me
on the enneagram.
When I pick my head up
When I become present again,
When I stop the search,
My self will be silently observing,
Lying still on a dock between water and sky,
The pylons locked down into earth for support.
The purple-fringed clouds passing by,
Bringing apple-smell and fall forth,
Soon darkness telling stars to light,
And owl calling some of me to flight,
While part of me is always resting, smiling,
On that dock, planted, between water and sky.