Every fine word will fall. As a flower withers and is no more. As a bird falls from a poison sky. As a butterfly catches fire and crawls without wings to troubled death. The flower is the legs of earth that brought us here and weds our destiny to the wind. The bird is the shaman who sees afar. The butterfly, as commonly held, is the story of the soul that by some miracle of creation evolved into acts of beauty and is tortured by a love of death in the fire-pit of extinction. Every word of poetry that breaks seed, blossoms and flies from the wounded heart in a time of peril is a rupturing tear that longs to dance.
Tell me: How much emotion have you turned into gold in the potlatch of the morning sun? With what connections do you feel the throb of pain and the balm of healing?
12 April 2011