On Essential Kinesthesia

It’s easy to forget
that nothing stands still,
that we’re all evolving
somewhere along a trajectory,
that my freeze-frame pressed-flower
memory of you
was outdated the moment
it was born,
that the still photo
of you I hold in my heart
was blurred
even in the taking.

I wonder:  How inaccurate
are others’ images of me?
Am I a whiskey-drinking wannabe tomboy?
A disillusioned twenty-something stuck
in the late eighties?
A new-age flower-child
with bare feet in the grass
and her head in the clouds?
But:  Am I not still all of these?

Am I only what I embody in this moment:
business-casual paralegal-person
furtively typing poems
on a borrowed laptop?
Or am I still,
even right now,
a lover,
house mouse mother,
bone collector,
bike rider,
hat maker,
Spanish speaker,
food grower,
music player,
novel writer?
Can I call myself so
if I am not currently engaged in the act?

Is it a question of essence
or identity?