Mind in its purest play is like some bat
That beats about in caverns all alone,
Contriving by a kind of senseless wit
Not to conclude against a wall of stone.
It has no need to falter or explore;
Darkly it knows what obstacles are there,
And so may weave and flitter, dip and soar
In perfect courses through the blackest air.
And has this simile a like perfection?
The mind is like a bat. Precisely. Save
That in the very happiest of intellection
A graceful error may correct the cave.
– Richard Wilbur
The image and text are unrelated, but since it’s National Poetry Month and I’m now a month behind on photo edits, I thought to include a poem that is currently etched in my own mind as these inconclusive thoughts wrestle in the dark.