At the Window

A poem.

I was at the window

when a fly near the latch

was on its back spinning —

legs furious, going nowhere.

I thought to swat it

but something in its struggle

was too much my own.

It kept spinning and began to tire.

Without moving closer, I exhaled

steadily, my breath a sudden wind,

and the fly found its legs,

rubbed its face

and flew away.

I continued to stare at the latch

hoping that someday, the breath

of something incomprehensible

would right me and

enable me to fly.

Excerpted from The Way Under the Way: The Place of True Meeting by Mark Nepo, published by Sounds True, November 2016.


*photo credit: Sivakumar B

Originally published at medium.com

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