… together.

By J. K. McDowell

November 2012

 

The feather’s edge was blue, a blazing flame blue,

The flame of the furnace burners, when the heat kicks on.

Can this Firebird carry me beyond this wasteland?

 

The hands come together at the heart.  In these moments,

Please be sure to praise beauty before blessing.

No more grasping, no more holding, only the breath.

 

I am feeling the sideways glance of the hawk.

The pain returns and we are open all night.

Tell me about all these connected dismemberments?

 

There is a turning that orbits the truth.  Not the

Spin that offers a lens of distortion.  Rather

A bearing that honors the many centers, here and there.

 

No tears, no sweet returns.  The Blood Moon is dry tonight.

The exhaustion spreads, another failed attempt at

The impossible.  What does all this really mean?

 

We are all corpses, not ready for the shroud,

The winding sheets or the oak box.  The sun kept its

Promise, we too must rise, a new, a glow, together.

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