Who

It is morning and very quiet,
sunrise pink is dusting the last
sliver of moon from the hills
before the world takes hold.
Hands held, palms up, on my lap,
wondering to the rhythm of breath,
slow and even, coming aware.

The hands, in an odd way, aren’t mine,
as I am not, as yet, fully me.
They are much older hands than
I remember on myriad mornings,
much the same as this, without
liver spots and yellow map lines,
on the backs as I turn them,
palms down on my lap.

Different scenes, appearing
in different windows in a
time lapse Koyaanisqatsi blur.
Everything is disappearing
before my very eyes.

Who is viewing this scene?
Is it me, if my own eyes are
melting in this vortex-whirling?

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