Flying Lessons

The wild is talking —
A wind rises
In the singing trees
Every time I stop.
A progression
Of the goldenrod
A tree bleeds
Box elder bugs,
But only on the east.

A kingbird watches
From the highest
Barest branch,
Then arcs downward,
Passing inches
From my eye,
As if to show
How it’s to be done.

And if it wasn’t
For this damn foot,
Or leg,
Or hip,
Or back,
I might get off the ground, too.

For now,
Learn to live
Inside astral voices
With just
The right balance
Of wary and wonder,
As it’s really
Much too easy
To make their myths my own.

A grandfather
Catches up when I stop,
And for a moment
We smile and point
At verde going
Rojo and amarillo.

And I say mañana,
Meaning it
In a lyrical sense,
And wonder
What his other hundred
Words might signify,

That it’s something illustrating
The different efforts
Required to make
A heart
Or a wing beat.

And maybe I don’t
Have enough,
Or just the wrong ones.

Here, by the
Sanctuary waters,
I hone and polish
Blades of thought
Til sharp enough
And bright enough
To cut
And cauterize
What’s been wounded.

Then listen
For subtle song —
Easy to pass by —
And words
That might
Still wet and
Slightly spread
To bathe in sunlight —
Just enough
To grow into wings.


About Emily

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

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