poem.

These nights, you see,
where I am alone and whole
and there is a white, hard
bone china chip aglow
against the blackened dark blue
and the vastness of the earth
and wholeness of the sky
is perfectly balanced
to my smallness, my tiny breath:

limited only by my bones,
I know, deep down within them
(even in the very walls of
this little prison!)
my mind is loosed as lightning
jettisoned with need
to that which is nameless
and beyond my tiny self:

so young, so small
and yet I know my clarity
is of a rare feathered kind
granted through genetic grace
and entrusted now to my
opened, expectant, faithful hands:

The wonder becomes truth,
and magic becomes that
soul-deep root of self
and knowledge.

I am
like the air in my own lungs,
lingering and reveling
til I can hold no longer
and must expel myself to the world
with safety, knowing that
in fearlessness
I will
be breathed in again
and therefore, I will breathe.