Poetry: At The Window

I was at the window
when a fly near the latch
was on its back spinning—
legs furious, going nowhere. 

I thought to swat it
but something in its struggle
was too much my own. 

It kept spinning and began to tire.
Without moving closer, I exhaled
steadily, my breath a sudden wind
and the fly found its legs,
rubbed its face
and flew away. 

I continued to stare at the latch
hoping that someday, the breath
of something incomprehensible
would right me and
enable me to fly.

— Mark Nepo