Inside Myself

I have always been inside myself, 
always a book, a paragraph, a story
a fleeting snatch of music 
in the background, 
on a bed or in a chair,
a child, long ago, once sung to 
by a mother

Spring rains and dreams of blossoming,
Summer sings its brown skinned song,
Autumn flames trees yellow and green,
Winter cold grows inside me.

I stare outside deep into the heart of the night, 
look to the sky, rub eyes filled with stardust,
and question the moon:

Where is the road I must travel?
Is it today or tomorrow?
Will you sing a silver song for me?
Will you sing me to sleep?
Will the sun greet me when I wake?

In the end, 
if it be that we blossom, 
let me be the rose.