At once an epithet, a byname, an endearment, a curse
And a myth, Psyche, the Soul, floats through the garden
On dusty wings. She makes me brave—-I recognize
Her in myself, in the mirror, finding in that visage
That which does not change, that which finds sweetness
In sameness, that which recognizes. Break the line
In the middle, at the joint, and it becomes a book
About itself---a redaction, of course: the rule of thirds.
The image resides there, the sun setting on the garden
Wall, the butterfly bumping around the columbine, a witness
To the workings of your mind, reader--myself--to the
Dividing the indivisible, in order to understand.