love, read, write

I feel like I'm insatiably in search of some kind of peace,
a settling. Sediment to fall, to unfog.
Shed seasons have left dimpled fingerprints that have shaped me closer to that image,
my whistling song half-emerged from clay into what I tell to myself is that fabled peace -
but I feel too weathered to know,
to taste salt from smog, sugar from dirt.
Am I stuck in the autumn of the evening?
It is so hard to tell when my reflection is water
waiting to drum at the first raindrop.
Or maybe I am already there.
That I am the water and the raindrop, the smog and dirt -
a universe assembled, not an ego discovered.
Or stupid. Later tonight I'll feel bliss in the breeze
and tomorrow I'll wake up and feel bad.
It might go on like that, forever.
That's probably enough.