What of this path…

What of this path

that speaks of my name
and yet, of itself, it holds
no identity.
Beckoning to my Soul,
it bids me, “Come, come…”

The painted path enraptured
within wooden pillars.

Thousands of arms
eased out from all sides
adorned with green fraying
—they seem like kites
     hovering effortlessly.
Their stems, like the kite’s
     tail, connected to the
     grandeur of each tree
     woven beside this nameless

I step.  It is no longer
my name I hear.
No, it is the name
connecting each of us…
—the hawk flying overhead,
—each blade of grass standing
    with ease,
—the soft breeze caressing
    my shoulders
—and, a soft whisper
     resounding from every direction,
    “I am.”


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