Who has not climbed a mountain to discover
how small all below? That which flies belittles
our earth-bound selves. Donning capes we
ape the birds and climb trees to find a breeze
that lifts our spirits above the clouds that
shroud our days in a haze of normality. It’s
because we have no wings that we sing of
things above the sky, broadcasting the myth
that our spirits are up there somewhere,
that no affliction is too great to overcome
and someday we will understand why:
But to win the gold, we have to die.
It's good to have your poetry back, Glen - this is a lovely one! Thank you.
Awesome...your language soars as well as your spirit! A wonderful treat to have your poems back, Glen.