What sort of trembling has become of me?

How could I fly the coop in distant memory,
and shade myself in anything
without a breath of deep, cold air?

Where should I sit when I’m alone,
if all this restless energy forever
makes me shake in discontent?

Where is the comfort in the fulcrum,
and the levity in slow eventual tiring?
Whose rock am I standing on?

What is nature to the trees?
What is ancient to the breeze?
What is movement to heat?

What is everything without the occasional stopping point?

Where does one line divide
the mind
from humankind?

What is holding me fast
against
my screeching in the night?

Why do I cry in silence
without ever letting loose
the deluge within my heart?

Why must the mind and soul,
the young and old,
the love and life
and hope,
all stand apart?

Who am I
without the world
to define me?

Where are those with whom
I may share
my hiding?