The Continuation of Wings
The bird finds no end in its wings—
not even in flight.
The sky is the continuation of the bird’s wings.
In the sky, the bird is no longer a bird—
it belongs to the canvas of heaven.
No longer a creature,
it becomes an arc in the dome of blue.
It dissolves
like a small loneliness
into greater lonelinesses,
until the whole sky becomes
a mirror of its solitude.
Like a tree
that discovers its forest within,
like a girl
arriving at womanhood,
like a being
finding its opposite
inside itself,
like a brook
unfolding into its sea.
Otherwise, the wind
lifts the regretful heart of the bird
from its cage
into the open sky,
where nothing is real
except the unlocked hearts
of bird with broken-wings.
There, in the farthest far,
on the roof of the heavens,
a broken-hearted, broken-winged bird
sits,
whose heart,
whose wing,
whose hidden lock to his
you
once broke
in your cage.
