I Am

I am pointless. I am point. less. I am abstract. I am abstractionism. I am roof-sitting and pencil shavings. I am little grey notebooks with a hard cover and a stretchy strap to close it and a little ribbon for a page-saver. I am a cloudy day when the sun peaks through, lighting up the grass. I am Snowy River. I am Stonewall. I am messages and thoughts, electric impulses and dreams. I am that I am. I am the sounds of my neices' and nephews' soft voices echoing over the phone. I am Fresh Aire, am 80's music. I am orchestras of Appalachian Springs. I am novels and I am essays. I am a Chronicle of Narnia. I am take-offs and landings. I am the roar of the engines as the plane lifts off the ground. I am the landscape shown beneath the plane, deserts and rivers and mountains and lakes and plains and alien country, and I am forests. I am horizons. I am summer. I am summer nights. I am buzzing misquitoes. *buzz, buzz* I am lighted lamps, chirping crickets, cicadas, barbeques and clear air. I am heat and light and reflection. I am tree-sets and sunsets and moonsets. I am attic windows, I am air conditioners. I am quiet, peaceful, dangling conversations. I am greetings, and I am goodbyes. I am birthday parties. I am inspiration. I am peace and quiet. I am peace and noise. I am summer mornings, with the sun peeking in the windows, gently tapping on the cheek, waiting to see who wakes up to enjoy the soaking rays. I am summer tans and the smell of suntan lotion. I am love and goodness and service. I am libraries. I am reading and knowledge and learning. I am faith, the evidence of things not seen. I am equinoxes and eggs. I am point.