Today I am suspended
in the clear winter air, hovering
above the field—no wings,
no strings. I float here,
as if I am air, unboundaried,
as if everything moves right through me—
song, sorrow, beauty, light, hope—
nothing sticks, nothing lingers,
and then, as if all it took
was for me to notice it’s possible,
I expand out in all directions—
into the startling blue and into the generous earth,
across the valley and beyond the plateau,
and it keeps going, this glorious, dissolution of self.
How is it I am free today,
unable to be weighted, uncontainable?
Is it because of you, grief?
Is it because you
have broken me open so competely
I can no longer pretend
I am not spacious,
can no longer believe I am separate from the whole?