Wednesday, December 30, 2009

birds like water

I fly at night amongst the air currency of anonymous angels, those with familiar faces but faded names. And I land on shores that house the spirits of other attempters, other birds who travelled this far to see that there is an infinite horizon that swallows the sun.

The brightest star falls daily, into the sea, in love with the heart of an open earth. A cavernous well filled with wishes to be born again swells with the rhythm of the moon's sleep. Pulled with the movement of a satellite's constancy, stretching to reach further, receding to collect more strength, the lungs of a body beat incessantly.

I live with the presents of mind that have been gifted through the generosity of teachers and expanded by friends. I walk with a silent intensity that notices how the pulse of a stranger echos in footsteps on the cement, and I hear the patience of a tree as it grows slowly--deeper into the soil, higher into the night, open to the air and inviting the morning light.

Dawn breaks me too frequently. Noon catches me by surprise. The resignation of day light into the ground reminds me that sometimes the only way out is down.

Birds can take lessons from the water.

The rest comes from knowing how to love one's reflection as it ascends into the sea.

Oceans--still--float above me.


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