pondering

Sometimes I sit and look down
and ponder the tiny creatures moving about my feet
in the dirt, under leaves, through the grass.

Sometimes I look up
and ponder myself, a tiny creature moving about on feet.
Made of dirt, covered with blood, a blade of grass.

Even the waxing flower moon has gone to bed now.
The clouds have moved out and the temperature has dropped.
My breath wisps in front of my face and disappears as it rises
up toward myriad stars.

What am I that you would consider me?
That you would feel the wisps of my heart
rising up and dissipating in the atmosphere
that is you?