Blow on the stones,
clap wood and flint
to parry cold and
bleakest night; plant
decoys before sprinting
off with real fire—
What boldened rush,
what streak through
burning brush? A duty
bidden by the moon:
to steal the secret
of the buckle’s gleam—
O birdling, o almost
completely fledged,
the branch on which you
teeter is alight: come
now to bridge the air,
no vertigo or fear—
[LAG-two-sources date=”01 23 2013″ url1=”https://www.vianegativa.us/2013/01/buckles-to-my-shoes/” title1=”Via Negativa: Buckles to my shoes” url2=”http://yeosi.wordpress.com/2013/01/23/small-stone-210/” title2=”small stone (210)”]
I love this: the tautness of the language, the controlled energy, the empathy, the story full of holes – like the fabric of a dream that is falling apart even as you scribble it on waking.
Thanks, Ama. I appreciate your comments. Especially that you’ve read the empathy in it.
“alight”: Like the way the branch seems to move, simply because of the vigor of the prior stanzas.
Thanks, Marly. I love what your eye lights on as you read…