I wish to create, to write a poem, or something somehow worthwhile. I want to dive into a cool ocean, and walk along the bottom, staring up at the wave-play above my head, spreading my arms wide to feel as much water as I can, hair drifting with the current. I want to lay in the sun, alone on a wide rock, with nothing but sky, sea, hills and trees to see anywhere, and nothing but birds, squirrels, or bugs to keep me company. I want to run with the wind, so fast that the wind feels like still air, until my legs quiver and my lungs burn, and continue until I collapse on grass and stare at the clouds shifting through the sky. I want to fly through the air, swooping and calling like a white-winged bird, floating on thermal currents, diving and pulling up, climbing until my wings melt, and I fall to join Icarus in the cool wetness.
I perch, precarious, on the edge of the sea,
rocks behind and below,
blinding blue stretching before.
I stare, deep into the froth and turmoil
as two waves are entwined
one charging in, the other retreating.
The skin on my feet is not too cold
to feel the twists in the water
as it buries them, and the rock, hiding
the last shred of my connection to land.
And I am gone. The rocks are gone.
I shoot straight up, a rocket to a cloud,
a sudden explosion, a startled flock of birds,
a shimmering translucent body
twisting with sudden newfound joy and energy.
My bright wings burst forth - why have
they been hiding? - and the wind
rushes by, carrying me swiftly away
from the land, the ocean-covered rock,
from the unambiguous division
of earth and sea, body and spirit,
life and death. Further and further
my wings take me. And
even though my ghostlike, now useless feet,
seem to remember the passion of
sand in my toes, solid bedrock,
knowledge and human connections,
the movement of cool air around my skin,
the ecstasy of flight, of freedom,
is stronger, and my face remains towards the horizon.
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