Dear fly, (though I don’t really mean the “dear” part)
why must you ceaselessly
circle my head,
occasionally tangling in
my hair, or
clumsily crashing into my
cheek, or worse,
my lips?
I know you are a child of
God, as am I.
St. Francis would have
called you brother.
I’ve tried to imagine you as
guardian angel
keeping me safe as I walk
in the woods, but it
stretches beyond the reach
of my imagination.
Were you more calm, maybe
marking the place
in my psalter, as your kin
did for Saint Colman
I might have more
affection for you.
Your presence, however,
reminds me
I do not yet fully love
as God loves.
I have some growing to do.
