Posts Tagged ‘wings’

One Hush

between cupped palms
it flutters and tickles—
this secret growing wings

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One Unexpected

at the edge of understanding
growing wings—
now, the leap a joy

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The Autumn Morning

Perhaps a red-tailed hawk
calls to you through closed windows,
and curious, you leave your work
and step out into the morning.
The air smells of rain and autumn leaves,
and the hawk makes wide circles above the yard
as if showing you how it’s done—
this is how you play with the day.  

Everything glitters as the sun emerges.
Everything, even your thoughts.
Even your greatest loss.
The hawk disappears up canyon.
You breathe as if you’ve just remembered how.
When you go back in, you’re careful to fold in your wings.

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One Fluttering



sound of wings—

on my shoulder, that bird

I let go years ago





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One Out of the Comfort Zone




stepping off the cliff

half a moment before the ground

growing wings

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Caught in the Act

Let’s say you’re carrying a priceless bowl

overflowing with fruits and flowers,

and let’s say you’re balancing it on your head.

And let’s say you’re on a high wire.

And let’s say the wire is above the falls.

And let’s say it’s electrical.

And let’s say it’s about to come unplugged.

Let’s say you’re in the middle.

What is it that inspires you

to do these crazy things?

Regardless, Now’d be the right time to learn

how to use those enormous wings,

those wings you’ve pretended not to have—

that you hid because, who knows why?

We all fall sometime from the high wire act,

but some of us learn to fly.

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who dreams
of flying,
do not
be sad
because you
were not given wings.
Such strong legs you have, pushing against the air with every step, and such fine skin that stands at attention in prickly praise
as the wind
lifts you the
that it can.

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Step One

After dragging
those heavy things
on its back
for miles and miles
across the desert
at last the bird
looks up and says
something’s not
quite right about this

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why prefer?
the piñata before the strike
or just after


mud puddle
only the moon
doesn’t jump in


though tattered
I clutch at them, these shreds
of who I was


knitting the last row
I consider unraveling
the whole scarf


the sun takes me
by the hand—the mountain
can’t be tall enough


not the song
that made us look up but
the sound of wings

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the floors themselves
laughed when it fit on my foot
the glass slipper


do you want a bag
for those, said the woman
who sold me my wings


it was no thicker
than a word mid air, that wall
that trapped me for years

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