The question is not being, if or to, but rather when and what or why and where and how.
If one does this instead of that, results may shift by threads, or swelling clouds of snow. But time, as lord of all, crafts here and now at whim.
And what of this is relevant? What is fluff, and what’s concrete?
A crack, a stone, a thought, a breath, the need to move, progress?
It seems the center’s gone beyond not holding to full collapse. But those corners remaining, can they sustain our weight without it?
Years ago, I saw a man on a corner far from mine. Because there was no ground between us, we got by on shallow waves, our certainties preserved by distance until one day a spot appeared no larger than a tender seed and we set our feet upon it. And from each common yes no maybe, it grew.
Soon it will be spring and time to plant. That, I think, is being; that, I think is when and what and why and where and urgently, mindfully how.
I found a moth on my kitchen window,
climbing up the screen.
It was a large moth, close to an inch, I think—
I didn’t measure,
and it seemed confused
by endless mesh
beneath its legs, its feet—
fragile, if moths have them,
I didn’t check—
and morning’s heat,
the lack of exits,
how it became so impossibly trapped.
At another time, I might have grabbed a weighty book— Gray’s Anatomy, perhaps— and disregarding frantic flaps, each frenzied dodge, would have taken aim in memory of garments lost— cashmere sweaters, silk shirts— to their nestling appetites, hatching broods. Acrylic doesn’t suit their tastes.
But on this morning,
without a care for material salvation—
the artifice of dress, donned image—
I grabbed a glass instead,
possessed by instincts to
Its wings fluttered hard
against its new transparent jail—
momentary, but how could it know?—
then spread wide upon release.
On any other day, I would have crushed it,
for reasons that seemed right.