The soul’s wilderness is ringed by pine and rugged cliffs above which birds with wings stronger than mine circle and circle the primed canvas sky. They give me their surplus of feathers— dress remnants of silky black, ink grey, satiny pearl. I find them strewn carelessly in the discount racks and rush to gather them up. I study them closely to make adjustments— ah what I wouldn’t give right now for even a jar of Gorilla Glue or a hot glue gun, in lieu of a crossbar and wires, battens, a keel. Something that noses into the wind and lofts quick with the changeable currents, to take me away from here. It’s cold at sunrise: that time of day when the honey and the wax need most prodding (I’ve come across tiny striped bodies, asleep in their padded cells). My arthritic hands need warming too. They hurt intermittently, as though these fingers were carving labyrinths from stone. It’s always more difficult at night, or in the long winter months when the light slants, elusive, in the cave. And yes, that crazed bull likes to sit in the mother of all mazes, making frightful noises: uncombed, unwashed, unkempt. But, surprise— it unravels too. All it takes is one skinny thread, one end of yarn poking up from the corner of your brightest red sweater. It works something like a ripcord. Pull on it. Or wear it and see what happens.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.