It’s a precedent to set, to be sure.
A move. A risk, sitting on top of a pile.

But it must be said, in these moments:
That I am one of the forest through which you fly.
And your voice travels supersonic along my edges
To guide you safely home - blind, yet defined by boundary of response.

It is not all we are.
It is what we are.

And so, point counterpoint, poem a poem,
Let’s live dialectic and ask, re-ask,
How long is a year?

And what does it do?
And why do we bind ourselves this way?

And what do you want?
And how will you get it?
And how can we move time from out of your way?

It’s how you traverse
Over rough, solid ground
Arbitrarily pausing at mention of “year”
Too long, or too short
Too impossibly wrong of a way to delineate
How you got here.

The issue,
As all great philosophers say,
Is one of a definition in terms.
You /move./ and you move.
And you fly broken-winged
Regardless, exactly, of when the world turns.

Your pain matters much.
Your heart does what it does
And continues to feel at a pace of its own

So forest of trees
Said to brave flying bat:
Fly outward
Away from that year.
It is gone