A Poem: Half

When I walk

I am half me at that,
less even.
My eyes look straight ahead,
no hindsight.

The past mostly a blank,
apart from imagination.

But when I walk
I feel a memory through my ankles,

not of shape so much
as sense,

like rising mist
from which I step,

not entirely myself –
more the composition of many,

and its simply my turn
to be here.

Perhaps it’s something like
a bloom on the clematis growing wild,

and when I fade, the one who takes my place
drinks from the same vine,

of which we know the taste,
its liquid sap in both our veins.

When I walk

I’m aware I’m half there,
at that.

And it does not matter,
not one drop,

from whence I came,
or where I’m gone.

The vine,
even when it eventually depletes,

has dropped its seeds,
in the bush, deep and green.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
April 2019


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