you are not the sun-gilded clouds
or the thunderstorm sailing across the sky
the sudden crack of lightning
or the gentle grumble of thunder.
you are not the honeysuckle-scented air
or the thrasher caroling merrily in the sprucetops
or even the cottonwood with leaves surprisingly still.
neither are you the swarm of midges encircling my head
the sparrows arguing in the gutter
or the rabbit tauntingly nibbling clover beyond the garden gate.
even still, you are not the chipmunk in silhouette on the woodpile
the raindrops freckling sun-warmed earth
the robin pulling an after-dinner worm
or the silent bats wheeling in the gloaming.
you are neither the blush on the apricots
nor the thorn on the rose
but are not quite the iris glowing palely in the dark.
perhaps, in fact, you are the crescent moon smiling beyond the edge of the rooftop
or perhaps — and even more remote — the faint stars glimmering on the horizon.