We yearn for what is not
Without learning what is;
We lean into the skylarks
Of the profoundly blue latitudes
When we cannot hear the questions
Of the local songbirds.
Could it be that fantasy
Is as close as we can be
To what we know,
Somewhere, is real?
The outline of the ideal seems clearer
Than what we call the actual,
For it is not beyond, but behind us,
The residue of a fractured fall;
The screams of pieces,
And the comforting voice from above
Who helps us remember
Everything is love.
