The timing of finding this was interesting for me because I find more and more as I become busier and busier with work as a tenured professor (not just the busyness of teaching and grading and planning but also that of involvement in the politics and structure of the college, committees, grant work, etc.) that I have to work harder to find ways to make my life poetic rather than prosaic - a hard thing to do when time becomes more and more limited.
It's interesting as well how these changes in life take place on a spectrum on which it is hard to determine when a change has actually occurred. More and more in recent months I want to remember how to "fly," and I find I have forgotten. So this poem has hit me at a number of different levels.
So, without further ado, and whether you asked or not, here it is:
Because You Asked About The Line Between Prose And Poetry
Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned into pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.
There came a moment that you couldn't tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.