a grasshopper licks tears from white muslin

Hope is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson writes.
Dreams too elude us by the whimsical grace of flight.
Unbound by logic, not constrained by thought,
You stand naked like Icarus but for your wings.
And ascend to the sun.

You know the story, the melting of the wax.
In the hollow shaft of a feather you send a prayer.
To your surprise it’s the moon that reflects a response.
Fear not the smokey drippings, stay in the heart of the flame.
Add nothing to what you are.

The feathering of light through green leaves at dawn.
The weaving of gossamer insects, the king’s organza crown.
Clothed in beauty you become the father, roam a labyrinth with ease.
You play Ariadne’s threads in innocence, as if they were a harp’s chords.
Now only happiness is known.

We are fish, bears, persons, mountains, hawks, clouds, stones.
All forms, all names, our fears and desires translucent as feathers.
Fleeting constellations, and no thing can be found, lovely and loved.
You must learn to kiss your Divinity well!
And drink the rain of faith.

The silence makes love to the wind and you glide.
A song unveiled draws a lei of flowers with a quill of light.
There is nothing that can be done or that we ever did.
Heavy doves fall to a cobble-stone plaza.
And a weight lifts off.

No other choice remains but winged transparency.
Tattered feathers, iridescence made of laughter.
Icarus rose to the sun certain of victory.
Knowledge transforms the wound into wisdom.
Ah, yes, where were we?

Look, a grasshopper licks tears from white muslin.
And here, the movement of the ancient seas.
The slow-drifting evanescence of a vision.
In the church, your crown falls off.
The plaza with dead birds vanishes in eternity.

photo credit: mariq-petkova-unsplash