I start to define myself
by the lines of light streaming through,
I start to feel their lift, their strength,
and to be less impressed by clay

If Mind doesn’t hold me here,
what ever could? What, possibly,
except idea, could hold this form in place?
What but Mind could let me move
in grace, and with intention?

Look at me dancing —
look how the music lifts and moves me.
Surely it is clear
that I am made of lines of light
for clay could never move me,
clay could never move like that.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 11, 2017