the beginning of thought
is the
trap where the firefly
finds itself,
where you find a broken
wing of a butterfly or that
wasp, an empty nest of mud
hanging upon a twig
the last drop of rain
and the fading sound of
a tweeting until an ending
becomes visible,
and this is where you start
to ponder
that end, that leaving.
it seems to me that
death is a johnny-come-lately
then thinking is born,
a late bloom new in spring.
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