It Isn’t Me

I am not the poem, can’t you see.
‘though I speak with “I”, it isn’t me.

My thoughts, my hand, in time and space
perhaps in some remembered place;

perhaps the “I” when I was five
or the “I” the day I came alive

or the weakened child with braided hair

who loved the grove and open air.

The world turns daily on its own

another “I” with every dawn.

Perhaps ‘twas I, the day I said it

but by tomorrow, I might regret it.

I know you think 'twas I who wrote it   
I understand, and that's well-noted,

but here I am and you can see
‘though I speak with I, it isn’t me.


-Joy S. Barefoot