an imperfect ballet
(the underside of everything)

these are the berries
that feed the birds that plant the trees

this is the dance we all sway to
inside the circle we draw ’round our feet

a hole and a window were the very same thing
before the mirage of glass was invented

looking out, climbing in, always scrambling for the light
when it’s the wind that moves us

the invisible made visible only through friction
and the lost enchantment of passage

the temporary existence of each leaf
is a mirror

dawn and dusk’s lost reflection
miming minutes dressed in gold

the imminence of flight
ever present




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(the underside of everything)

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