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I’m the wild, whistling wind

     That brushes your cheek;

The white, silent ghost,

     That makes your doors creak.

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I’m the man on the moon,

     The surveyor of all:

The beggar, the tramp

     That you just can’t recall.

 

I’m the thought in your mind

     Or the word on your page

Who is not classed by race,

       Or by sex or by age.

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I’m the silent observer,

     The one you don’t see.

I’m looking at you,

     But you’ll never see me.

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Copyright on all my poems