Migrant

You and I,
We see these
Different landscapes.
Feet firm on earth
Or branching predominance.

Still,
Whether through erosion
Or growth,
Or death —
There is change in both.

From below I watch
And wonder what calls.
And when.
And how.

Down here,
The frost
Turns discarded leaves
Into treasures.
How must these diamonds appear
From 30 feet
On the wing?

All these gems
Rolling beneath
As the sun shifts,
Making everything fluid again.
In every season,
It loves this pasttime,
Of turning the mundane
Into gemstones.

And this morning —
Bound in pain,
Solitude
And the weight of stones,
I wish to be this:
One sighted feather
Rising to join you
In flight,
Then falling,
Falling —
That in one
Span of years,
I might kiss them both,
Heaven and earth.

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About Emily

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

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