Pretenders

After the aftermath of the cisterns quieting, a moth flutters free then drops into the nest of sounds that crickets weave. all of our away-words wait the gathering of ground. between our usual state of lost and found. we hesitate in leisure, presuming to douse our thoughts with memory’s perfume, intoxicate our wilderness with stupor, known to render children mad and madmen to surrender. Some call us, pretender. So light a breeze upon us one could scratch to catch a tick of something licking at the bottom of your mind. You cannot find a trace. It has no face. Some believe it has no place. There is no there from where you feel you are and though you wish upon a star or carry moonbeams in a jar no ordinary miracle can reach that far. For far is work, when close is easy; now and then are whence; and where you were is where you are; all else is just pretense.