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,
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.