Mariposas

11/20/11
To carry a child must feel endless.
And wistfully brief.
The conversation. In between. Not among. To carry on. Perhaps the cadence.
Guidance can seem misguided from the perspective of generations.
So many people.
Mirrors. Smoke. And yet, the distance is. Plumb.
Infinite.
The haircut. The phone. Waiting. A moment. Never to replace. Find yourself again.
Through conversation. Cadence. Grow back into yourself. For a moment.
An in between. Pausing. For a moment. Holding the phone. Summoning someone from
another room. Guidance can seem misguided from the perspective of generations. After
Dr. King.
Vision. Disappointment. Unpredictable. What remains? A point of reference. Brings you
back, even to Who’s the President?
But what drives the vision? The proper. The French. Where is that compass? Where
does it go?
A name. A chant. Danish. To remember is a task. Maybe a statue can help. But who can
afford it? Your cousins?
Living on within. The mariposas. If you love something. If it draws you. You live in it.
Blinking.
Each flap of the wing. Coming. Gone. You see, it is possible to believe something is held
within the mariposas. Even before there is a need to carry the loss. Somewhere. Plumb.