I guess it’s in me somewhere,

hovering, waiting,

perhaps between heartbeats,

or underneath my breath,

hiding where it can’t be seen,

but wanting to escape with me,

go somewhere, perhaps over the rainbow

where bluebirds fly.

Sometimes, I wonder if it’s really there,

or just a notion I’m supposed to believe

like Santa Claus.

Sometimes, I want it to speak to me,

tell me it's there,

hear it say you’re not alone,

that it’s guiding me

with whispers in my ear

when I close my eyes, lost,

and don’t know where to go.

And now that I am older,

my legs a little stiff,

my hair white and thin,

I wonder what it’s thinking,

if anything,

or what it's doing while I'm sleeping,

or sweeping the floor,

or walking on the beach

looking at clouds and horizons,

or kneeling down to pick up trash

or a coin I dropped.

Does it grin or snicker when I try to stand?

Does it feel my lament,

my longing to be strong again.

And I wonder if I’ll ever know for sure

when I’m withering away,

if, at last, on that final day,

will I see it smile at me

through my closed eyes

and take me home?