We grow up learning boundaries, and there
are deadlines, too.
Cushioned as a great aunt's fine china
might be on the last day of the move.
Someday we'll learn to hold broken glass
without getting cut. We melt
crayons on the hot pavement,
desiring a blending of the hues.
Finalized by this action, and wild, we know:
a true believer.
And coming home is a bird, wings extended
in triumph of the day.
I really enjoy the-for me, at least-peaceful tone of this poem. Combined with the ending image of "coming home is a bird" it really conveys the narrator's sense of victory over the day.
ReplyDelete