Attending to Distorted Echoes

Meaning would seem to be something
Humans make, as spiders make silk,
But it’s oddly intangible.

People, as a rule, wouldn’t like
To see themselves as the sole source
Of whatever meaning there is.

If you’re always hunting meaning,
And you see meaning everywhere,
And the thought of meaninglessness

Generates reflexive despair,
The last thing you want is to think
Meaning’s just something you make

Like musk from a gland, like honey,
A molecular concoction
Your species creates to get by.

Would it be even worse to think
Meaning is immaterial
In the sense it’s not a substance

Or an essence, but behavior,
A thing you do, a way you do,
More kin to sniffing than to scent?

But how is seeking for something
Itself that something’s creation?
The bats are echolocating.

Moths their hunting has selected
For fuzzier shapes, ghostlier
Echoes, often enough escape.