It is sort of colourless,
the Earth. Though
I can hear the voice of spring,
I cannot help being disappointed at the slow
blooming flowers, that grow up
pursing the sun
to no avail.
Then I see the long boneless bodies
ascending like arrows
into the depths of a starless sky,
and I think to myself that he
who has gone into
shadows, hissing a private song
is much better off with his visible scars than
their invisible wings.
And I wonder, will he come home
or pass like water between unwebbed feet, to the ocean
where all that is written
is washed away with the sand?
Copyright © 1991 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “New Mystics” May 2018
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: