Empty Pockets

And she told me how she touched the sky
how the spiral widened as she flew towards the sun
and how all at once she tasted God . . . and almost was Him.
In that moment, she was spirit . . . conversing with the moon
looking down upon the earth in all its’ splendor,
no boundaries . . . no fences to keep her in.
The gate now open, led to everywhere it seemed
day and night were one.

And as the spiral whirled . . . she flew . . . and flew
until at last she touched the sun
for one eternal moment
until she fell, as those who fly must do,
broken-winged and shattered.
Now she walks with mortals
hiding feathers in her pockets
finding rocks that hold her to the earth.
They speak to her of ancient wanderers,
souls who might have flown like her in mystic rituals
or daydreams . . . once upon a time.

And we . . . who have never left this earth in flight or fancy
nor felt the rush of wind beneath our wings
try to tie her down with pills and promises
hoping she won't fly away again
to leave us gazing at the sun and wondering
where she’s gone this time
and how . . . with empty pockets.

Joanne Cucinello 2003