Flying



Perhaps I’m too cautious.
I accuse myself.

Perhaps it was my Calvanist upbringing,
that taught most pleasure was a trap

to snare the unwary pilgrim
into dark and venal depravities.

Perhaps I’m just too full of fear,
sometimes unable to tell the difference

between mortal risk—or simple embarrassment—
and the kind that teaches wisdom.

I’m the kind that would toss a rock
over the railing of a bridge

into the dragon scales of the ocean far, far below,
but also recoil from the risk, however small,

torn between a dream of freedom’s flight
and a pesky lack of wings,

knowing how easy it might be, like the suicide,
to fly as in his dreams,

smaller than a gull,
lured by fantasy for ever-so-brief a journey.

Remember


From whence we come, we know little,

and forget even that.

We are just fish moving through water,

which closes in behind and marks our passage

…barely at all.

But at our beginning, God whispered into us,

those foggy, quiet words:

Go, now, to the limits of your desire,

Let everything happen to you, every joy,

Every terror. No feeling is final.

Press on.

But remember Me,

Who spoke you out of the darkness.

And do not despair.

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