Closing the door or chapter: the irony!
What is yearned for quickly rejected out of hand,
a cicada fighting to hold onto popping skin,
the unexpected folded twenty stuck absentmindedly
into deep wool of winter pockets, only to reveal itself a miracle
upon rediscovery the following fall;
Right Here. Right Now.
In the eleventh hour, perhaps, loneliness begets community.
Isolation flowers into fullness. Mind manufacturing excuses,
justifications, retrospective backstory, sliding doors, past
to present and over again, kaleidoscopically exchanging one
for the other, pulling up tent stakes and moving on
like Bedouins traveling over tides or shifting desert dunes;
Mimics of motion focused into cavernous wilderness
of intention, never domesticated, never satisfied,
and why should we yield to boredom?
What appears real, if not all of it, is none. Anything birthed
in imagination bursts forth into animation, a genesis story unfolding,
secret lives like insects in long grasses crushed underfoot
through sheer ignorance, or nurtured through recognition, examination,