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