It looks erratic this flight
Translucent wings trace the air
Destination a red dot
On a random map;
Gestures lost in cuneiform antiquity.
Mere observation fails
To reveal her obscurity
Beckoning in hidden frequencies
Amid the grace of Nature’s waltz;
Whirling gestures mark
A grand and timeless dance
Begun before we knew;
The start of all we see
Among the urgent flowers
And their dusty magic.
They come and go tirelessly
And give and take and give,
Each fitting like a puzzle piece;
A kaleidoscope of intricacies
Which we do not own but borrow,
Out there in the secret world
Where all is made.
whoisfenton 