The Way Back

January 2, 2005

The sand is the color of skin
the reeds blow ever, ever so softly in the wind
and the water is sky blue
and birds cry their songs of life and of the wind
held up on feathers of rainbows’ hues

they alone know what it is to fall
from a mountain tall
and fly back up as an arrow loosed straight and true

I’ve searched for a path to fly
returning up the mountain so high up in the sky
from the water to the sand
would I had feathers and could take to the sky

as it is, I must search for a hand
to steady me on this smooth black rock
with no stepping block
when I reach the top, I’ll at last see the way back.

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