And
a Bird Flies Out
Imagine:
you are walking.
The air is chill, and damp, and
moving, breathily around you like
anticipation.
The world is halfway between
winter's raspiness and
summer's lush and supple body --
spring filters slowly into the
empty places
with hints of green,
white flowers,
tiny buds on high up branches.
You hear a rustling in the brush,
crinkling
dry leaves winter left like
smoldering ashes amidst the
fragile, new life.
Imagine:
the rustling grows louder and you
wonder
what life has touched down here
and why it stayed so long in this
forsaken place -
or if it left -
but returned, here, again
where the harshness reigns,
still.
You look for reasons to return
and find
hints of tenderness in
the faces of snowdrops.
Peeks of friendship in tiny
daffodils.
Mentions of forgiveness in the
green that grows
like it doesn't know it was not
supposed to, when
the crackling and whispers turn
to
an eruption of motion as
springing from her imprisonment
of branches
a bird flies out
skyward.
Imagine:
you are walking.
The air is chill, and damp, and
moving creakily around you like
your mind aches with the weight
of
thoughts resting heavily in your
skull.
Your heart is gray
with the dark and heavy truths of
your days
as you wait
in anticipation of how you will
unfold from your long
and heavy winter.
Imagine:
here,
there is a field of flowers.
Here, in this gray, forsaken
place
blooming! -- this
is springtime --
improbable, I know,
but imagine:
each thought, a beautiful
and simple flower, like:
you are forgiven, like
take my hand, like
you are beautiful, like
all of you is worthy, like
let me stand with you, like
a wind has come
and blown away the crackling
leaves.
Imagine:
you are walking.
The air is chill, and damp, and
moving softly around you
and you feel
a stirring, starting gently in
your chest.
You move your heart
to the returning sun and
a bird flies out.
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