What is it that I am

But a cloth hung up to dry

In the spring breeze

Quickly, hopefully, before it rains.

And when it rains, I am forgotten,

Drenched again from head to toe,

And all in white, so vulnerable.

My heartbeat slows.

It rains, 

It poors,

My tears begin

poor forth,

but unnoticed in this torrential wind.

I am a sheet that plays the ghost,

That covers the couch,

That showers the host.

I am the beginning of this new life bulging,

I am the end of this crippled body dying.

I am everything which makes me nothing.

And I am nothing which makes me everything.

I am old, I am young.

I am here, and nowhere.

I have only just begun