Poetry ain’t
the sort of thing
made, formed, or even
envisioned,
neither built nor bartered to obtain
neither paint nor produce.

We catch her
fetch her
butter
flies
lightning
bugs
mermaid
Mew
(2)
red fox
White Stag in a wood covered moss
light streaming in from some
unknown heavens
when caught, she blesses us with moments of divinity,
then,
as all good magic tricks,

Poof.

The youngest among us immediately start once more to swing our nets
and spring our snares

But the oldest
wait…