Bird Eye

Sky’s edge rusts,
Wings to the dry grass –
Wakes the day.
And our engines pound
With its rising.
We had the bird eye –
Always this flight
At the edge of our vision.
Blindness refused,
We relished the sky’s demand
For depth,
And visions to uncover.

We bathed
In the waters of variation
Until seasons rolled away,
Picking up days and
Pulling them to a long line
Of motionless minutes
Behind us.
Each second introduced
New celebrations.
We stood outside,
Our breath casting shadows,
And we gazed upon yellow squares,
Electric blue flashing,
And the sleepers moving within.

To be one of the watchers
Is to submit to the endless alone –
But we let it all in.
We let all of it in.
This emptiness –
We were full with it.
And always,
In the stillness of dawn,
We waited for its call.

Where do they come from –
These visitors?
Silent –
Lovers of seed,
Flesh and flight.
We were vessels,
Waiting to be filled
With their songs.

And we of the long eye
Remember how water
Moves slow beneath
A solid surface,
How the sun
Gives a silver lining
To winter cattails.
And always this rebirthing –
The rhythmic pushing
Through these holy places.
We would see with new eyes,
Hear with new ears.

We tied our assumptions
Into knots
In our shoelaces,
So our pacing
Might leave them
With the other dust
On the trails
That rolled behind us.
And we let it in.
Innocent, open,
We let all of it back in.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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