is but a search for moments,
a quest for that fleeting
impression of significance found in a
meandering path through autumnal woods,
a brass quartet in a university cathedral,
a sudden refraction of the sun through green leaves.
We play our parts dutifully, all the while
wondering when the next fleeting moment
will happen upon us. We read in hopes that
a string of lovely words will call the feeling back.
What verses can I give, Uncle, but for my
rendering of these moments? I'm just a
girl, older than she used to be, leaning back in her
chair in a crowded classroom, taking in the flavor-filled
words of the Romantics like a child might
suck in a soft breath
on a snowy morning.
