Of all the spontaneous art, none
more trustworthy, more enthralling
than the wild mirrors—of heart
and grace without guilt pulsing
to get free, rising with the ascension
of ducks from cattails, clear droplets
raining from webbed feet etched
to hang on white cloud walls
to draws us in—and then, like
windows out to where we might
want to be—like poetry, learning
to fly with words a little at a time.
drycrikjournal 