(for Christie Domasky)

The morning glories’ purple abundance
makes it seem as if they’ll live forever
on the old fence in my back yard,

unlike the poor fly buzzing around
the kitchen window, desperate
for a way out.

And when I try to shoo it toward
the open back door so it can live
the rest of its short life outside,

it stubbornly clings to the glass,
certain that’s its departure point.
I’d so much rather it spend however

many days it has left where it’s
meant to be—out in sunshine,
perhaps taking a rest on one

of those glories of the morning,
breathing until it’s truly time
to go. I’ve learned that arrivals

and departures are not up to me—
though I wish they were—
not the timing or place,

no matter how much I wish
to help. That we are all here
to accompany each other,

to serve as witnesses
to the process,
as hard as that might be.