ong of the Earth
Fly, bel canto bird, and sing of existence.
Raise your task of high import and spread beyond,
escape between lightning and sparking flint
and blend two distincts, their division none.
Ascend to currents of warm thermals
and glide over fields and fixed calendars
and tell of the sickly kiss of scorched flesh
and stained earth dismissively dissolved.
All to be turned to richness of soil one day.
Above such sticky clods and weathered melts,
in gusts that buoy beyond map-spread hills,
sing of the muddied, embittered, wearied.
And surf the heavy gravity of lands,
where, desperate to find havens in this world,
too often the endgame ends lame and flightless:
caught in the distant crossfire and range
of others' death-dark, ensnaring aims.
Nothing to own, especially your own self.
On the soaring wing, bel canto bird, sing
of defiant stares and the deafening
loud reports of unflinching execution.
No amount of cold blame can take away
the gentle throb of your simple pulse
that beats liquid time for those who stand
bereft, in silent queues, their thin blue lips
awaiting the cadence of expression.
Waiting for hours with muffs and folding chairs,
queuing for nods, for food, for rubber stamps,
destitute, dignified lines muted, steadfast,
patiently watching for flutters of hope
to carry their freighted message to lands
beyond barbed fences of sealed homilies.
Bel canto bird, you have far to travel
before being sighted above flames and ashes.
The bird of loudest lay, your consonance
will sing of phoenix ascend beyond scale.