Change.
To sit waiting patiently
for the soup to appear,
conversation about
vying with the chatter from the surf.
The cars sweeping by.
While the sun bears down
a gentle breeze blows.
What strength is in that memory
a few months back.
When the waves raced the seaguls
down the beach.
And the wind tore at the hair.
The Fly
There's a fly on my knee
it landed there a moment ago.
No radar, no landing lights
no traffic control.
And now it's gone
off and away
a free soul
no one is telling it wha5 to do.
It must have a soul
to be so free
and for that soul to be the catalyst
for all those countless equations
used in those flights.
Chemistry, navigation
geometry and meteorology
to name just a few.
Abd if I can't even repair
one of its many joints
or lubricate the odd wing fulcrum
let alone begin to understand
how it flies like that
or lands on the ceiling upside down,
I can't do that.
What right have I,
and what reason
to swat it?