The imagined state remains unrealized,
feeling left unfelt,
though approached in hope, in force.
In lone being I absorb a loveliness allowed myself,
sought in otherness,
yet found, unsought, in solitude.
The itch to share it may be a lofty bird,
and I below with faulty aim
might rather sleep,
and wake to find it perched on me,
an alarming crow,
instead of the dove I thought it to be.
Or perhaps its flight remains,
uninterrupted by my seeking,
and my itch, unscratched, dissipates,
dissolves into the joy of birdwatching.