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Poem

The finch dances merry, weaving feathers into music
That spills from overeager beaks and drips light onto slick wings 
Which beat in time with the song, fluttering, flittering, 
Finding life in the sky and where the ground meets it, turning,
Twisting note to the bright forgetful where the now is all
And the past does not exist.
Must it be so wonderful? To let go
And float up on thermals over sunset summer parking lots 
And the people in them, looking up, or down, or anywhere
Except each other, but freedom tastes not-sweet and all encompassing, like
Air, like blood, like the gooseflesh on your arms when that wind catches
And whispers asking to play in words no one can repeat.
How terrible must it be, to be afraid of the fall?
Because I am not afraid of endings, little bird, and you and I
Will fall forever up until we reach the sky,
And when it ends I will be glad to have been there for the beginning of it.
Why fear failing, why fear falling, when the ground will always catch you?
And as the crane jumps on stick feet to the unawareness of dinosaurs,
I too forget waking up. 
How terrible it must be to fear falling asleep!
Because the sky is blue, my dear, and there is no greater honor
Than being a part of that hue someday—
People slave over paper and skin and lightning in metal
Sparking over clumsy fingers meant for braiding grass.
The small bird laughs and flees from the hawk, the raptor, 
Watching rapturously the give and take of prey
And the forgiveness of both sides.
How terrible it must be to be afraid of endings, finch,
And to be aware of them!
But I refuse to mourn myself, and so when I fall, 
I will be glad to have flown at all.

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