by Sharon Scholl
Buddhists say there is no self
to have a center.
We are a loosely strung chain
of habits, memories and dreams
assembled in a waking mind
each morning.
How delicate this airy substance
called the self. A simple stroke,
one tiny vein bursting in the brain
and we are gone.
We tell ourselves who we are
and what this day is all about,
depending on a confirmation
by people loved and trusted.
If they ask who we are,
we have most likely vanished.
***
Sharon Scholl is a retired college teacher who convenes a poetry critique group and maintains a website (freeprintmusic.com) of original music and poetry for small, liberal churches. Her poetry chapbooks, Seasons, Remains, Evensong, are available via Amazon Books. Her poems are current in Third Wednesday and The Bluebird Word.