On Writing

The rarest thoughts
have wings of tissue that
once torn, remain
forever grounded...

Inspiration of the kind
worth sharing
rarely can
take flight;

through you always
remember how it feels
the lift, the thrust,
and now aloft...

Sweet savagery of wind,
bare, craggy heights,
nearness of dimpled cloud
and shock of sunlight...

Green sea beneath
all gold-chipped
tumble of waves and sweep of froth
that cannot stop

that cannot stop,
that, surely,
cannot stop,

And yet
inevitably does.
World without end
but ending
nonetheless.

Wings ripped to shreds,
all broken now,
nerve endings
shrieking pain,

and all that remains:
faint shadow of wings,
the leap
and the ache of the love of it.