the “I” that I am is a certain composition
Wind whipping up the hill broadsides
the garage and raises a funnel of snow.
You take the wind on faith
from the warmth of your window.
At some point the swirl is a spout.
No ghost added to the weather;
it is more, yet nothing more
than flakes and breeze together.
I am more, yet nothing more.
Any other combination, I wouldn’t be.
But where and when this composition
arises, I am there. And I am then.
From a swirl of snow, I take on faith
an unseen breeze turned into a tornado.
I see your face and on faith
the emergence we each call: me.
