Close to ‘It’ on many daze
that elusive feeling
of sublime contentment.
The satisfaction of knowing
who and what I am
might really matter.
Much was precarious
and misfire–missed opportunity.
That and close calls amid
the sun-warm moments of being.
And all the while becoming.
Restless process
like a cold mountain stream.
The collective impression
of all who knew me
along my vertiginous edges.
Realizing however late
the long, slow climb
and precipitousness
of love–the eternal assay.
Never rueing though,
just enjoying the heights
after all–what it meant
to be so close, periodically
dissolved within another.
It is there you shall
finally find me
when recalling what it meant
to be who and what I really was.
Then you, too,
might come close,
be proximate yourself,
a mirror-like essence.