POEM

wetlands are moving into the ethers and fogs of memory

all over this waters-come-down globe we living beings 

call home. with, without respect: no mind. the places 

where the sturdier of the real angels called birds settle

in the evening sunsettings into fog banks of the ocean

born, far inland: these draw their flocks back from sky

to earth with cries that stir souls and bring silence to 

busy human thought. 

I would be a crane, if could be: a dancer. a flier. a water

creature: All Three, all at once. I would have such a full

and strident singing, that none could show disrespect. 

I would have loyalty to love. my feathered clothing, a

remarkable cloak of beauty, grace, élan, and still, more

than practical: perfect, really....

instead, from far away, I admire. I stand in awe, truly.

each of you carries more grace than all I have known, so

consciously, so unconsciously, all at once. 

then, you rise on some message of the gods, into this 

amazingly settling sky of all times: rise, then come down

to the earth again, into the welcome of waters and soils.

all at once, my heart sings your even-song....