How bright the gates look from the great inside;
how tall from out beyond the world.
We children play, then sleep
and in our sleep, we dream.
We sew the feathers real birds leave behind
to the shoulders of our shirts;
rub mud into our glorious faces;
and sing the sun hello.
We tell each other all our dreams
and comfort those who’d none.
This is how birds make themselves,
if they haven’t come from eggs.
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This is beautiful, Robin, a lovely poem of transformation.
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed reading your earlier entries too, sorry that you have lost so many people recently. The watershed poetry reading sounds as though it was beautiful.
Thanks for your comments on my blog, yes it was over at Myspace that we 'met' - I'll check out your recordings over there, I may have listened to them before....
Thank you for bringing light to the beauty of birds and dreams
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