Wish Whisper

It isn’t much. It isn’t, but even the best translations are half 
dream anyway. The best interpretations let the blue 
 
fingers of the past find the future’s soft palm and say 
something tender there. I call for you here the moth 
 
of finding, the top of whose wings are green, so, when resting, it blends 
into the green of the grass, of long leaves, of weeds and standing 
 
water. The bottom of its wings are purple, so overhead 
it can be one with the sunset, the shadows, the bruise the horizon 
 
got dancing too hard against hope and possibility. Let it 
land gently on a swirl of dust that resembles the faces 
 
of all your homes, the ones who have taken, the ones who have 
given every last line to your complicated sketch of self. Let 
 
the statuary around you teach you nothing about holding, about 
capture. What it locks in place has nowhere else to go, exists 
 
only as a touchstone for we who can still move. Even 
depictions of wild motion are just pretty lies against the sky. 
 
This is a summoning of the moth of finding. To find is to search. 
To search is to move. Let what it guides you to (what you find, what 
 
you keep), glide and grow and breathe. Let it help you resist 
any plaque meant to mark who you are as others pass by, still becoming.