To Touch a God
The earth is heaving its last sigh.
Birds twitter in the growing chill.
I wait for wind to sweep the sky.
Like Icarus, though I may fail,
from this green summit, I now spill
myself onto blue heaven’s trail. . .
I am flying higher than high!
Wings carry me to that gold sphere
I wish to touch before I die.
Beneath - beasts cower in the grass.
Soon everything will disappear
and earth become like smooth cold glass.
The earth is heaving its last sigh;
I am flying higher than high.
A Cornish Sonnet
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014
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