Flux

Cocooned moths,
callow frogs,
and sunshine
dandelions.

October’s
tawny gusts
and April’s
pastel blush.

Dawn’s
chirping trill
and dusk’s
gilded still.

There is magic
in the flux.

Even now,
I chase the
blink and
you miss it–

a
transitory
existence
where every moment
is revelation and
each sensation
a sensation.

Stagnation
is death.

I knew that
even then.

Wings that
crispen
in broom closets,
a pond’s
frozen silence,
and hollow stalks
that wither
in the cutting
wind.

There is death
in stagnation,
a dull and
quiet end.

I chase the magic
now,
for I felt this
even then.