Drop

 

And then you see it —

your own shattered sky 

strewn in feathers 

slate blue,

still bright against

twining tendrils of moss.

 

Will you turn away? 

There is no one to blame

or fear.

If you allow the pull, the moss will

catch you, 

each fingering frond will point

closer,

drawing you in 

to face every 

downy 

loss

 

until your slate blue wings 

fold 

like the peregrine

and drop —

 

blurring every boundary,

exploding all that once was.

With one swift move

into the hurtling surrender,

the unimaginable 

now

recreates what is,

and the 

exquisite, timeless

yes

opens its wings 

within

you.