Fly Away Home

A pacifist,

the bite of the writing bug

prompted

its immediate catch-and-release.

Afraid that

the questing legs

might spin webs

to ensnare me,

I trapped it under glass

–and reams of paper–

and ok!

followed its excited trails testing boundaries

for a second

. . .

(decade or so)

and then I just

set it free

. . .

outside

. . .

on frosted

step,

–in gloomy mourning–

watching the very

legs I feared

freeze

since bug

had kicked into life

at the fire in my own heart

–ill-suited

to actual sub-zero

temperatures–

–and inner fire

only ash now–

the liberty given

denoted its death.

Oh, truth be told!

I was also Afraid

it might fly

–given time to–

might morph

from creepy-crawly

bookworm

into breathtaking

winged thing,

impossible to contain

under glass,

impossible to keep

in a Net,

and altogether impossible to

pin down

–without ending–

its fragile

velvet

flight.

I