Proof

I pull away every now and then,
when the world’s too hot, too bright,
too bitter; too cold, too merciless

in its inconstancy. Too rough, too
callused, too grainy, too stubborn
to answer the hand that pulls

at its ends and begs it heed. See
the ease with which the robin finds
a bright green morsel to spirit

out of the woods? Above the treeline
it flies, little beak a caret marking where
some buoyancy or joy’s gone missing.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← PrayerLandscape as Elegy for the Unspent →

1 Comment


  1. Above the treeline/ it flies, little beak a caret marking where/ some buoyancy or joy’s gone missing.

    WAITING

    How long would you have gone,
    or how far would you have flown
    to salve your pain, to ease a burden?

    Would those you leave behind know
    that one day your flight could finally
    be the last one, and must be kinder?

    You have all the agility and the grace
    of one who has known too many hurts
    to plan on a escape and not return.

    Fly if you must, to some distant shelter,
    but it is your heart’s constancy turns
    you back to one who will always wait

    by an open window, leaning out to see
    if by sundown you will be back, perch
    on the branch at the edge of the woods,

    and warble your coming home song
    forgiving what needs to be forgotten
    and finally fly into these fevered arms.

    —Albert B. Casuga
    06-05-11

    Reply

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