No notion did I have in soaring over the path that day.
Intending to rest only upon beginning and end,
no wood, ford, valley, or crest; no man, beast,
nor act of Nature was to occlude the day I had foreseen.
But a sunny summer breeze sought to oppose my burning thoughts.
Keeping pace, I pumped my wings, and recalled those ancient days where
steel and steed were wrought in attempt to temper Fate
and punished myself, recanting past loves forsworn and unfulfilled.
No matter, though, for you captured me from the ground,
so well reflecting the brightness of the day, rooted to the soil,
standing to the wind, tucked away in a grove known until that day
only to the Sun, Moon, and stars.
If you had seen me as well as you held scented air,
I would have been found dumb upon the branches above you.
If you could have heard as much as had courage to stand,
your attendance would have met nothing
but warm wind, held breath, and silent longing.
At that moment I wanted nothing more than to be a blossom too,
to root myself and open my face to the Heavens,
to stand and embrace soil below and crying clouds above, forever.
In days since, I have soared and tasted
the breeze that draws me to you once again.
And with it, I am given what before I was without
and could, if asked, flaunt and forestall the tides, the Fates,
and even Time itself with heart and mind, alone.
And now, when I am high above the Earth
of fevered pitch and labored breath,
seeking the refuge of even higher state, you capture me ravaged,
late in my thoughts and too much of the world.
All at once I am stolen to that hidden grove.
For that moment, suffused with you, all labor draws naught of use.
Every windward song quiets, the last fleeting notion falls tacit,
and with the Fates imperiled and all the Earth ashamed,
even the final arrogance of man’s sacred Art gladly fades to ruin.
Within the deepest eves, my dreams launch into weeping
for all things both taken and given, for release,
for the fallacy of pride, and for the joy and sadness
of communing with but the memory of you.
I awake, surprised, with dry eyes.
My first breath, deeply taken, cools my racing heart.
I soon rise to invite labor, Art, Time, the faded Earth,
and the weeping Fates to once again join in battle.
If I am to be the sole warrior versus such foes,
when set to rest or mend broken wing,
I shall close my eyes and take a moment to seek you,
the flower, if only from that moment past,
it will be at least forever in bloom.
The Hawk and the Flower
No notion did I have in soaring over the path that day.
Intending to rest only upon beginning and end,
no wood, ford, valley, or crest; no man, beast,
nor act of Nature was to occlude the day I had foreseen.
But a sunny summer breeze sought to oppose my burning thoughts.
Keeping pace, I pumped my wings, and recalled those ancient days where
steel and steed were wrought in attempt to temper Fate
and punished myself, recanting past loves forsworn and unfulfilled.
No matter, though, for you captured me from the ground,
so well reflecting the brightness of the day, rooted to the soil,
standing to the wind, tucked away in a grove known until that day
only to the Sun, Moon, and stars.
If you had seen me as well as you held scented air,
I would have been found dumb upon the branches above you.
If you could have heard as much as had courage to stand,
your attendance would have met nothing
but warm wind, held breath, and silent longing.
At that moment I wanted nothing more than to be a blossom too,
to root myself and open my face to the Heavens,
to stand and embrace soil below and crying clouds above, forever.
In days since, I have soared and tasted
the breeze that draws me to you once again.
And with it, I am given what before I was without
and could, if asked, flaunt and forestall the tides, the Fates,
and even Time itself with heart and mind, alone.
And now, when I am high above the Earth
of fevered pitch and labored breath,
seeking the refuge of even higher state, you capture me ravaged,
late in my thoughts and too much of the world.
All at once I am stolen to that hidden grove.
For that moment, suffused with you, all labor draws naught of use.
Every windward song quiets, the last fleeting notion falls tacit,
and with the Fates imperiled and all the Earth ashamed,
even the final arrogance of man’s sacred Art gladly fades to ruin.
Within the deepest eves, my dreams launch into weeping
for all things both taken and given, for release,
for the fallacy of pride, and for the joy and sadness
of communing with but the memory of you.
I awake, surprised, with dry eyes.
My first breath, deeply taken, cools my racing heart.
I soon rise to invite labor, Art, Time, the faded Earth,
and the weeping Fates to once again join in battle.
If I am to be the sole warrior versus such foes,
when set to rest or mend broken wing,
I shall close my eyes and take a moment to seek you,
the flower, if only from that moment past,
it will be at least forever in bloom.