OVID: "Neither can the wave that has passed by be recalled, nor the hour which has passed return again."
She is ours for the moments quickened to memory,
this "Milla",
this genus of plant of the family Asparagaceae,
subfamily Brodiaeoideae,
this container of the Mexican star, tiny scrunched fists,
and bottomless mirth.
Germans take her to be industrious,
Russians find her somewhat pleasant,
yet the wavering Romanian in me knows
she is actually compassion,
that form of wisdom which generates mercy.
We watch
uncertain
what genes can be held responsible
for the science of her strut.
The evening begins with kids
spinning
to the strobe of a sunsettling
sticky fingers against the darkening sky,
hands cupped with the hope
of firefly friends.
This moment
where
what we catch
means less than having
once upon that time
just tried.
