Gliding, singing the joys of night of starlight of
misty fields of darkness sitting slowly fading darkness
sliding past dreams and flickering moon shadows
past tomorrow and into a place no one ever knows.

Outstretched wings of gladness turned to sadness turned
northward on breezes across treetops across the meadows
below and above the ideas of where we are and who
we should be in that place that no one ever goes

Finally feet of clay of leather and toes stretching inside sad
shoes tied by gravity to dirt and twigs, leaves and reality
sitting below the gaze of giants of gods and under the
heavy sun so singular and…missing in a place so cold

Fretting forever watching the sky for the leaves to fall to blow
to pick a breeze and ride toward a place we can’t go to but
a place, with our wings, we could, we would; we do when we
let go and find those wings always attached just hidden and closed.

A dream would be an easy answer, an easy excuse for forgetting the
wings we wear, we use to fly to our future, to our endless
gliding, darting, side slipping quest to find the beginning of our
end, our succession, our transition from young to old.

Leaves spell it out simply and to the point in their circular
growing, flapping, flying, spinning, falling, dying, feeding, living
loop over endless loop of life and dreams inside our souls we
wish to fly, to grow, to be something in this place…something…
more than the less we always fear we are.

Gliding and singing and fluttering and
spinning and finding ourselves
past tomorrow and
into a place
no one ever knows.