You hang in little spaces
like motes on an afternoon shaft of light.
Floating and yet, I cannot catch you
or find a surface big enough
where you will land to examine what or who you are.
A brief brilliance and you appear bigger,
almost solid to my eyes.
But float away you do, and I am left in a new haze.
One that feels strangely familiar and alien.
Can I not see clearly what is in front of me?
Can I not make shapes with meaning?
You are shapeless. You have no meaning, no definition.
For if you did, I would see and believe.
I would gather you up and take you home with me.
Close to my heart, close to my senses.
And yet you float, unattainable, unreachable,
as I gaze at your brilliance,
and wonder why such a thing of beauty is so quickly gone.
Victoria Yeary 