Here now I can’t even say God made me anymore.
Made my eyes and ears and hopes and fears.
Here now, I must be the one who counts.
Counted on accounting for his own self, sake and form.
They tell me there is more to the word I
than meets the eye or nose or ears though.
Apparently, I is a legacy.
I is a line of time creased in several billion places
or so the story goes, but I all the same.
Throughout every age. Stage.
From gill-bearing fetus to Madison Square Garden
to adolescence and the Grand Ole Opry
of a good midlife crisis. All sorts of stages. Many forms.
Enough years you need to come up with different words for them.
Millennia is just the beginning.
Millennial won’t come close to touching the end.
There may have come a time in which I chose to die.
When passing on and leaving behind served
successive generations far more than what
I could have ever done with mine.
My time with I.
How many of us have been poured out into that letter is unknowable.
But how many of us have woken up into it can be counted like single petals
on a solitary head of an ox eyed daisy.
We sit, and for almost no reason commit the treason
of refusing to blame God for existence.
For in it, there is I.
My eyes and ears and hopes and fears.
What makes me who I am today
is who I have been for a billion years.