Monday, February 24, 2014

The Inflatable Geodesic Ball

The sound of breathing
Birds through reeds,
The gift of wind calls it song,
This pain of being
Ungrateful for life,
Surviving for oneself alone,
Yet touched by sharing
Breath and sun,
With death,
As if one is unworthy.
The plangent voice
Blots out all I am,
Because it has some being.

And then I see it,
A tiny bird
Perfect, on a branch
Keening, and I watch
As one divine, as it flies
Away, learns to let go.

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