To move with thinking and without
like a word born of both dream and doubt
to stretch your wings and limbs beyond the gulf
beyond the safe green where men chase still things
to drop against gravity
and lose your mind
to unbutton the rhythm of the crash like an old coat
before a storm.

To ask the trees to carry you
their branches whispering, we do not hold broken air
yet they lend you the weakest arm of wood
to call for a mother and meet her silence
the sky’s cold refusal,
the ache of being your own wind
of carrying.

To go again
without trees or mother
to stretch again this time with your mouth wide open
your tears becoming feathers
your cry, a compass
leading you to some place
any.

To dangle in tune and out
to dance with the trembling air
to tell and take off
to fall and take off again
until falling itself becomes flight
and you learn that to fly
is to love the losing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash