Being Night

Sands of wind and time
rush through my face
as if I'm not there.
Only the shallow crawl
of a snail can
withstand the blow.

Others trek through
the desert finding corruption
that sinks down
into the unending grit.

The night air
doesn't sting anymore.
The moon — a nurturing orb —
holds out her hand
and guides me
through the day
into night
into day
as I advance toward
my highest good

no longer following
and, yet,
no longer lost.