Bee Line



Wherever I am


I am what is missing. – Mark Strand






Hovering above


what is missing,


the pollen dusted bee


falls into the honey


of my eyes and everything


is golden. What is


this that was,


this that now I am?


Where are my wings


to climb the sun buttered sky?


What is this emptiness


that fills my lungs


and lifts me


into weightlessness?


The wayward wind,


has the last say.


I move within


a motion not mine.


Flying is falling


when there is nothing


to rise above.


I rise with each breath,


fall into love.


 

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