Every spring in flower beds

a moment comes

when the hawk’s shadow crosses riven soil

and we sit back on our heels

squinting to recall a time

we lifted ourselves from earth.


Finches remind us of it,

how they suddenly appear

already cocked on tree limbs,

shoot again into air.


We who’ve flown in dreams wonder

if we’ve been too long on this perch,

if our feathers simply dwindled to thin remainders,

if our sense of timing slowed to clip clops,

if like ostriches we blasphemed the gods

by rollicking off half cocked,

our tiny heads wobbling crazily

side to side with foolish laughter.


It’s a terrible doom this amnesia

that condemns us to kneel and watch

other creatures soar.



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