(wings are not always feathers)
for might I – fly?
even then-
imagine, a butterfly in flight
is an exercise
the so-delicate the so-soft the ballet pirouette
yet effort lies root the rouse;
to my friend, the hummingbird
a dervish of the common earth
a-wings a-blur
hand a scepter to the nectar queen
move forward from that pounding heart,
I might rather be a simple gull and glide
on above ocean tides, falls and rise
suspended as with silken threads, drawn a puppets ride
swaying forth like a child’s swing
as someone else pushes-
perhaps… even that… the hands of god.