Wing Span


In this sweet curve of time we fly south,
over the up-lifted earth of the Sierra Nevadas,
gray-green forests brown where fire touched the stretching earth,
catchments of smooth blue water,
patches of snow cast like manna on the peaks.

In the plane, I see the small curl of a baby’s ear,
the slight redness in the fold of fat at the neck
as a young mother pats and rubs the back
of the crying child across her knee.
Clouds form from the gauzy light.

Later, holding the stranger’s baby asleep,
I remember the tough brown crust of bread
hot from the mud brick oven in the Kalahari Desert,
my own son cradled in my arms,
far, far away.



About trillium24

“Art is a lie that makes us realize truth at least the truth that is given us to understand ... " Pablo Picasso
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1 Response to Wing Span

  1. Delightful to hear your voice in all forms.

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