Flight.

Love is a slow, slow, slow,
slow dance,
wrapped around you
and down you and up
and intense,
like a ribbon wound tightly
and a sparrow set free,
left to wing,
soft, and sing,
as he sits on the fence.
And he dreams of some
heart-racing pace
in the skies.
(For just once, he would die.)
Sweet and reckless
and shy.
The risks are so high.
He would try.
(So would I.)

And the ribbons would fly,
ever high, like a kite
hitting clouds without strings,
only held by a ring
on my finger.
(Let's linger.)
It's better held still,
close your eyes,
and the dance will unwind
like a streamer,
the slow, slow, slow
quickly speeding to flight,
spinning, sent on momentum
of feelings confined,
and the time swiftly climbs
toward the cloud-bursting heights,
'til the sparrows find sky
and the ribbons untie
without where, when, or why;
Love will fly.
(So will I.)


May 14, 2009