The housefly and me
We bask together in the sun. Against this southeast window
he is finding spring strength in tireless morning exercise.
Starting from the lower frame he walks up the pane
a few inches. Reaching an invisible barrier, he flutters
and slides back down to the casing, and immediately
starts again, straight up the window escarpment.
His zenith rises higher each trip. It has been some
five minutes, and he can now get to six inches
before falling back to the maple ledge. I sit and wait
for water to boil in the kitchen behind me.
Whisker-legs rappel back down the glass. The glass-top
burner sputters with moisture on the bottom of the pot.
In the time it takes to whistle, he has reached nine inches.
The smell of spiced chai steeps in creamy sweetness.
Sunday morning warms in a March sun.
Alongside a red pen, bright spines of books face me
with titles of the inner journey—what is real, mystery, being.
My fly climbs and falls, climbs and falls, climbs and falls,
separated from the sun by glass. When the window opens
in another month, he’ll fly. I will have studied another few
chapters, including this one about the author’s trek to a far-off
Indian temple with a Maharajji, the author's sudden tears
fluttering down his cheeks, and down the cliffs of the mountain
he'd conquered, when he realizes his home was right here inside all along.