I Know

In her poem the blue heron leans toward the sun,
poised in a frozen pond, legs caked in frost.
I ask, “Is this real?” She says, “How quickly
time lapses. We need to pay attention.”
I know when lost in the long light, I too
can forget the freezing clutch of the wind.

The sun sets without warning. The cold steals in.
Like the heron I’m held by what I love,
trapped by how it changes without notice.
She says, “I am going up into the sun.”
I long for her grace as wild as the wind
as she soars the fired sky of the dawn.

Too soon I’ll lie flat as ice on this bed
of drool and dream. From my frigid demise
there is no release. I know, like the crane,
my final cry will crack like hollow bone,
unfurl like smoke into glare, and perhaps,
smudge the cold, white sheet of another poem.

The Leap

From cliff top I look down the throat of green to the fallen trees dark with yesterday’s rain. A breath of pine cools my sun warmed face. I do not remember climbing, only the mist parting after snaking around snow drifts and evergreens. In front of me miles of deep fur shade splattered with the lime of newly opened aspen. Behind me lurks a mountain of confusion, smoke, a mouth of dust, a path weaving nowhere. Over the edge the fresh scent of melted snow and crisp blue cuts against a gray fringed passing of white. It is time to choose. I must fly to go on. I know in my heart I was born with wings.

in mist the fallen
trees dark with yesterday’s rain
it’s time to let go

crisp blue space etches
a gray fringed swirl of white
scent of snow melting

at the edge of green
it is clear I must jump off
I was born with wings

Please visit www.mdfriedman.com to see more of M. D. Friedman’s work.