In a field of pure potentiality, what do I choose to be? that part in me in equanimity could it be that it is me? Could it be that this butterfly who has a bounty of flowers to seek, first turns within its own cavity before it dares a pick? and in the darkness of its cocoon it remembers the taste of the sap a smile on my lips a song in my heart I dust a mystical map – it says a treasure lays within these fields ancient and many have sought but only those who wet their tongue before remember what to spot – they turn around to an equanimous well whose eye glanced at the choice and from its seat, they raise a voice “This is what I choose to be”! In a field of pure potentiality, all flowers could be me but one with equanimity I’ve chosen to be free.