Moon Ash Child

I am the moon ash child I once wrote of.
I am the tree in autumn, gathering my leaves
Of knowledge and dispute in bony hands
And flinging them over my head to fall all around.
I am the ink collector, holding
A dozen ancient manuscripts,
Not knowing what the words mean, but understanding
What they're made of, and knowing them
In that way.
I am uniquely common.
I am the broom maker and I hold the broomcorn
Like so, gently but firmly, and warp it straight
And use it to sweep away its own cuttings.
I am the mycelium, the dusk strings,
And I birth nothing new, nothing that was not
My own already.
I am the one who decides.
I am the upsetter of puzzles, the wrecker of
Dirt mounds and slivers of grass.
I am the glitter in the air at midnight,
Seen only because it is believed in,
The remnants of a scorched-white moon,
Like bone, the skin flakes
That fall and heap into shapes and rise,
And become alive and curious.