I hear you in the gasp
between moments,
when there's a flicker
of resurrection—
the perfect spot to live
a secret life like yours—
when there's just a
suggestion of branches
unlatching a sizzling
new sun, then
billowing veils of light
and a forest appears,
and you come to me,
little Carolina wren I
named Walnut,
serving me a song
I believe
I first heard
at the foot of an
ego-shattering mountain
in my childhood.
And what do I have in
return for your
audible stars
on the wind,
your ribbons of
crystal,
your feathery joy
manufactured by a God
that certainly must
be kind?
I'm just the
giver of seeds and
occasional pilgrim from
the land of clocks,
obsessions
and crazy things
you wouldn't
understand, but
look, your trust defies
the gravity of my
hampster-wheel world
like moths
blooming in the
succulent air, like
your black eyes
seeing more than
I ever could,
and I can see so far
through closed eyes and
a three-note symphony
to guide me,
and now that I'm
annihilated, so
perfectly defeated,
so lavishly empty,
so new,
I don't wish for your wings
any longer.
I could glide through
hidden galaxies on
music, feathers
and light.
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gingersgenre
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