I am

the slow drift of magma pulsing against the confines of stone,

the quiet shift of the tide reclaiming coastlines,

the steady march of continents.

I am

the whispers winding through the pine needles,

the tumbling, crackling flames painting the sidewalk auburn,

the brilliant slash of purple lances in a storm-whirled sky,

I am

the shards of crystal glazing windows,

the breath clouding the mirror,

the blurred drizzle of frozen grey skies.

I am

the stillness of the galaxy spilling across my mind,

the sacredness of the gold drifting through the canopy,

the prismatic reflections birthed by the babbling brook.

I am

the vast grey expanse of shattered asphalt streets,

the wandering stray with dirty fur,

the rust devouring old cars and abandoned bikes.

I am

the endless churning of the sea,

the contrast of liquid obsidian and aquamarine,

the currents ferrying both trash and treasure and creature alike,

the slow warming of oceans in the spring,

(I am) shifting yet ever the same.