THE VISIT

When a little piece of Joy

falls from the sky

and lands at your feet

broken and stunned,

what is there to do

but put it on a napkin

next to the name ‘wichcraft,

move it from sunlight to shade,

shade back to sunlight,

searching at knowing

what it might need,

untwist its twisted wing

with the corner of a cloth,

try to feed it sugar water

from a gigantic silver spoon,

fawn over it

in the smallest

and clumsiest of ways

with your big lives

in an attempt to save it.

But you can’t.

There’s nothing you two can do.

There’s only the waiting

and the watching,

and the wind

that bullies this wisp of a body

into nearly toppling

head over tail 

over itself, until

finally it rears itself up

for one last rally,

shakes off the stupor,

blinks its eyes into diamonds,

holds its head high,

and with regal stature restored,

is now a presence

full and beating

like a little green heart

upon the pavement:

a burst of wishful flapping

that lasts but a moment

and then stops.

With all fight and flight gone

from its dream-body,

Joy rolls to one side,

no longer touchable

to the wind.

Relaxes, rests.

And its racing breath -

steadies

softens

ceases.                              

We see this happen

inches from our eyes.

This tiny death

is just an exhale away.

What do you do when

the smallest bit of iridescence

bleeds its rainbow out

before your feet

and you are helpless

to save it?

You wonder:

How is this visit not news

about my own precious life

and how I could live it

differently.