I have my books, my children and my home,
discovered music, ideas and opinions,
but what can any person call her own,
and where and for how long are my dominions?
For I cannot possess. In fact I borrow.
And I cannot create. I only choose.
I can’t maintain today what by tomorrow
makes a yesterday I’ll never lose
but never own. As molecules don’t touch
but vibrate isolate in separate spheres
of microscopic influence, that much
am I apart. No matter what appears,
existence is a trick of attitude
and context, lit illusion, vaguely viewed.