recapture.
That is the word of my soul. Yet its purpose is not to cling to what has past and changed; instead, it seeks to remind me of what I had and was and to find a moment where that memory can tip its head to look at me from within my open hand, and before I have the chance to grasp it tight, away it flies, to land upon a fence post nearby and gaze again at me. And as I start to lean towards, it flutters out of reach, and hops once, twice, to take its flight to distant tree