Staves stung by voiceless birds

on their flight far from this fall,

too dry, too soon, a boon to the soil,

trails on a too-blue sunset scratching the sea of my sky-

instantly healed by the memory of ‘Jesus loves you’

written in white

on the clear blue sky over Orlando

in a far distant time

when love was in motion

(a marvelous frame I remember now, as I write)

the moment of truths,

real for real, no doubt,

true colours of life shining in unforgettable spiritual bout,  

(a time when they tried to copy our souls on pasted sheets-

scripts of a resonance imposed by a high order of bricks,

glued atoms that rhyme

the age of erosion unveiling the holes in the cloth of our time-)

signs in the sky that freeze every lie we’ve been taught.

And then, on our way to the ocean I asked permission to touch,

(passing by the launching site of rockets that sting our air with their burning wrath)

I knew I would never return

(maybe that’s why the Atlantic forcefully splashed my turned back,

angry or just desperate for my love,

its salt impregnating my clothes, so that I wouldn’t forget)

back then I thought I could die,

(mission accomplished, what other could follow)

but I remembered a poem I wrote when I was 19 or 20,

(or maybe still ageless at that time)

 Migration was titled the poem of cycles:

A bevy-bird

a father-bird

the same one mother-bird.

And on her tail

children-birds

toys-birds

following-birds

from fire-birds

and felt that this poem had failed, having no end.

(Even if, I remember, it was spring when I wrote that vision

and now it is fall.)

The birds of passage have left. Some will return.

©Daniela Marin,2019

Featured image of the poem from Pixabay – Soorelis