Flight

The afternoon sun with its fickle rays

Creeps up into little rifts

And cracks and cuts and splits

Of the infinity of your mind.

And there you are, a shade of green

A dancing netted sunbeam

Of a million thoughts that you dream

In a home of lost sanity.

Like flocks of birds that ride the wind

And cleave the air with razor wings

Not a drop in place or out of sync

Of a slow and drowsy mystery.

The space you fill that none can see

And stay unseen, no loss, no gain

Slowly, serenely, melting we

Like old photographs in the rain.

Like parchment is a poet’s song

And words are his only quill

Which spill and plunge and tumble down

The aisle of air at the windowsill.

A flight it is, a golden flight

Into the rainbows of twilight

Into the shadows of the night

Into a gleaming scenery.