How sweet the tune of an old song bird
drifting through a still, pale mourning is.
Her feathers primped and polished;
her eyes as keen as dew.
A subtle flapping of outstretched wings
takes me: beaten, bleeding, bruised, bereaved
Builds me up and feeds me till my strength returns
and overwhelms me, spilling out into the world.
Then, with gilded arms,
radiating, pulsating, and tearing apart
the melancholy airs of mistaken yesterdays,
we fit together fractured pasts,
rotten with failure, but ripe with hope.
Bold dreams embrace the rising sun;
desires cling to night.
In the space between breaths
impatience curls its green limbs
about our avidity and sews
stitches in our souls,
and we move forward
into gracious unknowns.
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