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 in foolish laughter


It’s a terrible doom, this amnesia,

that condemns us to kneel and watch

other creatures soar