Peeling
Geese cut overhead
like a joyful knife,
skinning a winter’s dawn,
and you look down
at the blade
held
by your own hand —
the one
quietly severing your own wing —
and
set it down.
Don’t look back.
Instead
fill your span with
homesong
let the tumbling tearing truth
claim you
feather you
heal you
with a traveling song,
messy and raucous and
real
pelting the mountains
with rimy peals,
a call spun of
sunrise.
Palpably beautiful, Tricia. I can feel the tumbling and the truth, the realness and the healing, the dark that turns to dawn. Thank you!
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Thank you, Rebecca❤️
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