Each day I live alive
in space with other life
limited in time – moon cycles,
measured in waves, curves,
parabolas near and flying away.
Plants magnificent squirrels
scurrying insects-a-motion in air
everywhere on the ground
without sound, now this unique
very ordinary fly
landing fur-legged on my hand
as if I were only some other
thing, poking me proboscis-wise
searching, searching, wanting
I, the object of its desire.

A hard and hot sun’s shine
reflects off brittle green
pulsing, metallic sheen body
probing my own, dimpling
indiscernibly, finger’s skin.

I know this being.
What difference I wonder
between me and this particular fly?
We live, in this space.
He probes residual oils on my hands
a baby’s hands once;
lands on a rock at my feet
put there by me.
We know, we do, that we
together, here we feel
the same sun’s heat
take our nourishment
in our ways, my coffee
he, landing on its cup rim.
Why not speak to the fly?

I converse with squirrels
though they seem not to understand
or trust me; carry on conversations
do I, with birds
landing on the fountain
I filled earlier with water
bathing as I chat with them.
Perhaps, in their own voices,
they thanked me but I,
I do not understand them,
chirping in foreign tongues
sounding warbled, wistful like song.

Worms, dark hidden, I’ve exposed,
hear me explain,
listen as I tell them why
I am pulling them from dark places,
moving them to other dark places.
For their trauma, their fear
and my own, my own part
it is the least I can do.

Ants do not listen to me
telling them not to come
into the kitchen, but they know me
in their racing to find cover.
They are wary and stubborn
rightfully so, unwilling
to listen to me telling them
to go elsewhere.

The painful unknowing of creatures
great and small, my own unknowing
it is a sense I cannot absolve
myself of, nor any other.

Portland, Oregon – June 2, 2016

I’ve been thinking about and giving some practice to writing poetry with more structure or with formally recognized patterns.  I don’t believe I’ve been successful and I feel terribly constrained; immaturity most likely, impatience probably.  So, this one isn’t the least bit formal or structured.  I wrote it quickly, sitting out in the backyard.  I’m trying, above all, to write just knowing it is what I need to do.  Specifically, for this piece, I am writing about the absolute miracle of life at any moment, especially as I share it with other than human life, such as the very minute little something or other exploring my radio right now.