If some are born to sweet delight and some
are born to endless night, where is the noon
where they might crisscross paths? A sparrow
tumbles from the eaves and auto-corrects
its flight. O wind, perilous as the pulleys that work
their hidden influence on our journeyings,
be gentle on these frail, tired wings.
[LAG-signature date=”06 03 2011″ url=”http://morningporch.com/2011/06/03/159121786″]