I guess it’s in me somewhere,

hovering, waiting,

perhaps between heartbeats,

or underneath my breath,

hiding where it can’t be seen,

wanting to escape to somewhere,

perhaps over the rainbow

where bluebirds fly—

who knows why it’s there,

what it wants,

what it’s doing

when I’m sleeping?

Sometimes I wonder if it’s really there,

or just a notion I’m supposed to believe

like Santa Claus.

Sometimes I want it to speak to me,

tell me what I need to know,

to say, you’re not alone,

that it’s guiding me with whispers

in my ear when I close my eyes

and don’t know where to go.

And now that I am older,

my legs a little stiff,

my hair white and thin,

I wonder what it’s thinking,

if anything—

and when I kneel in the garden,

planting seeds

or pulling weeds,

does it grin, or snicker

when I try to stand,

or does it feel my lament,

my longing to be strong again.

And I wonder if I’ll ever know for sure

when I’m withering away,

wondering how I got here

and where I’m going,

and if, at last, on that final day,

I’ll see it smile and nod

and take me home.