His home was an island, his lot a fisherman.
But not until the boat sank did he learn

how different he was. How the frigid sea
was his element, how he could swim

with the ease of a seal hour after hour,
reach the shore, climb a cliff, cross a field

of volcanic rock, barefoot, to his village.
And more—how he could talk to birds.

How ever after he looked at people
with the direct and guileless eyes

of an animal. How he could say,
I’m nothing but a small drop

in the ocean. How he found 
a way to live on.

I enter the garden and latch the door—
only to find a moth in the enclosure 
with me, a siren I step closer 

to admire—nearly her undoing, since,
panicked, she tries to force an exit 
through half-inch wire mesh, 

and won’t stop, even when I open 
the door. When she breaks free, 
she’s wounded, barely hanging on—

leaving me sorry for my curiosity,
for crossing the divide between us. 
Yet her flurry feels familiar. 

How often have I let fear drive 
an action that injured my life, 
when I had a wide berth to fly? 

I’ll never know the answer,
there at the edge of awareness, 
sky just out of reach.
                        

Trees and stars 
need a certain distance 

to thrive—no closer. 
You taught me this, 

planting seeds in the shape 
of constellations. 

I’m a clumsy learner 
with good intentions—

uprooting mistakes 
and starting over. 

I get there eventually—
patient, watchful, 

you beam on.