missing is to lost as go is to leave.
To the spider bags or sacs of flies
woven like god’s eyes in the trees’ hips
I say, batting, batting, the quintessence
of spring. If the eye were an animal, sight would be its soul.
If the heart were a pond, woe to thirsty birds
in winter with nowhere to light
in the ice-sharpened woods and nothing to drink"
– from "If the Eye Were an Animal" by Leigh Anne Couch