Kingfisher

I want to capture the ethereal in normalcy,

And poetry is my swooping net,

Diving low as a kingfisher

To snap up legendary fish tales.

So I rain down slanted words

Into the stillness of everyday life,

The graphite slashes caging the essence of ordinary,

And through its captivity, transforming its fragile self into

The extraordinary.

Simple acts fly free and unnoticed,

A blur in a deluge of nebulous thought,

And thereby pass into the realm of the unnoticed,

The unexplored,

The little known existence.

But by pinning down a corner of the world,

Skewering it with piercing letters

--Metal pins that slice through pulsing butterfly wings--

I can share the examination of its beauty,

Its iridescent sheen.

And though the moment is dead now,

As dead as that mounted butterfly,

Numb

Inside its cold glass palace,

It can be seen with all the crisp, multifaceted angles

Of crystalized glory.

It has gained definition in its halted stage

That the present would have distorted

With its frantic speed.

And once captured,

The moment can bloom again, and be clearly seen in the present,

Because it was appreciated first

In the past.

And surely in its next life,

In the next mundane flap of its wings,

It has the potential to evoke a similar feeling

Of wonder.