I try to see
what’s in front of me—
but most of the time,
it’s hard to pay attention.
Too often, I’m blinded
just stepping toward a door
which then causes the day
to shimmer inside a memory
like sunlight on the surface
of a creek as it meanders
through the trees. So, I stop
mid-way on my path
to regather myself,
and wait for the moment
to arrive fully formed.
Much as a poem folds
the pretense of meaning
within images which echo
across each other like bats
swerving through the night
searching for food.
(April 4, 2026)
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