The winged ones

The infallible dawn comes, eventually, even when the night seems forever.

The stars burn brighter before their sparkle is swallowed by the sun.

What can I say to the grasses that want to tickle my bare feet, nudge up

between my toes, etch words on my soles?

"Wait until the morning?" Doesn't quite suffice.

I arch and shrug, making room for the wings, itching to sprout from my back,

where lanterns can hang and swing their light forth.

In such melancholy, the fireflies and doves strum as host spirits

helping guide the way.

With this thought, we focus our aim, our pinpoints of radiance, for those in

pause, in stammer, on the winding path.

For we are all journeying, our knapsacks, both heavy and light.

We shift and rebalance, finding footholds up that high mountain and then the

next.

Up and down valleys we traverse.

Fording streams.

Weaving daisy chains.

Dream in the shade of ancient forests.

Eyes to the heavens,

there comes a time

when our wings begin to flutter

encouraging us to open

our hearts

and fly.

mj 10.2.17 poem