I am the moose in the wilderness come too close to town, chewing and thinking, watching the younglings in the reeds, afraid to let them go.
I am the pickle, the sour to those too sweet. I climb the stairs to pickledom in the vinegar of New Zealand apples and the oranges of real trees.
I am the earth with her plump, twisted sense of humer. Giving and taking and giving again.
I am the silence in the window of your mind. The hidden shadow with a plesant surprize.
I am a rose, a dandilion, a cherry picked green garden thing grown in the weediest part of the garden but with some elegant strain still hanging on, barely visable.
I am mother, heart-beat, daughter, heart-break, sister, heart-bent and lover heart-strong.