Wonder this wonder.
Call it this,
call it that.
And it still escapes
in a whisper,
in a breath,
in a kiss held just so long
and no longer.
I wonder this wonder would be,
if I could just
hold it still,
make it last,
capture it
just before
it vanishes
as the image of that butterfly there,
that was just here.
Love is none of this
and all of it.
We are incapable of holding still,
only of still,
holding on to was,
is,
and may-be.
Our only comfort in this.
So, my wonder,
hold me close and tight.
Don't let me go--
as I won't you--
now and forever
in the escaping moments
with you only
to be
without this happy-sad wonder,
my treasure,
my heart.
November 05
