I am the watercolors and photographs taped to the wall,
The sweater with almost-holes worn in the elbows
And the diary that never got beyond the second entry.

I am the crisp right angles of the wooden desk,
The soft curves of my handwriting on blue-lined paper,
And the thin pages of books read again.

I am the patterns the sun makes through the window,
The barely noticed shadows of noon,
And the dream that escapes when pursued.

I am the battered sketchbook laying on the floor,
The smooth wood of the instrument tucked in its black case
And the too-small shoes that are kept anyway.

I am the green apples in the blue china bowl,
The frail sprout poking through the warm earth,
And the rough trunk of the old tree watching over it.

I am the neat lines of tiles at the bottom of the pool.
The muddy purity of an almost forgotten creek,
And the white frothy waves splashing onto the shore.

I am the wire twisted around restless fingers,
The word that will not come when needed,
And the melody threaded through a faded memory.

I am the peach yogurt on a cool metal spoon,
The contented hum of the cat sleeping in my arms,
And the old postcard from a far-away place.

I am the friend of two fourth-grade ghosts,
The kite drawn in the margin of animportant paper,
And the bliss of bare feet on wet grass.

I am the bike wheel that clicks as it turns,
The smell of the air after it rains,
And the first line of a song that has been sung for years.