Sunday, April 3, 2016

And a bird flies out

And a Bird Flies Out

you are walking.
The air is chill, and damp, and moving, breathily around you like
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.
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

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.
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.

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.

My tattoo.  Apparently, inking something on your body
gives you a life theme.  My theme since the summer has become
"taking flight."  I'm digging it. 

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