Do birds find their home
within a certain latitude
or altitude of the globe,
or in the very act of moving
their wings freely in the air?
At home, not where it’s hot or cold,
but right in between their two open sails,
riding winds as each season demands,
flowing with forces that bind and
ground earth’s two poles.
Do humans find their home
in specific coordinates,
within the borders of a given
culture, or comfort of what’s
predictable and known;
or is home found in the act of
spreading open the two wings
of will and wonder
that grow out of and
crown each spine?
Silver wings, coupling you with free fall,
before opening wide, and you’re high
above horizon, mind stretched along
magnitudes and altitudes of an
atmosphere you’ve never seen before.
Silver wings, of spirit
that whirls within your spinal cord,
flowing with forces that bind and
ground polarities of human soul.
