June 6, 2020

           
The problem is the fight's gone
                                          out of me.
It just lifted off like a flock
of geese moving north again,
in retreat from oppressive heat.

I'm still here, of course, unwinged,
                                          flightless,
sweating – not from any rush
of adrenaline – wondering
what one does when neither 

fight nor flight is an option, when
                                          the instinct
for self-preservation is muted,
dulled, stalled, watered and
weighted down, soft.

Soft. It would be different
                                          if it came
with an exclamation point.
But soft! Like Eureka! Like a
light breaking through.

But this is softer still, no
                                          breaking
involved, just a quiet settling
into this season, pacific and
vulnerable, subject to change.