Months go by and I fail to touch earth.
The ground demands too much from me. It cries for roots
I cannot plant as something much more ancient
stirs in my veins, from back when water consumed the world
and there was no rock or green hill or building, only sea and sky'”
the desire, the need, for wings.
Nothing weak, by nature, bears wings.
Not when its entire purpose drives it from earth
into the unclaimed wild expanse of oxygen and nitrogen turned to sky.
The trees envy them, those creatures, and they pull their bodies up, from roots
to the thinnest branch, seeking a place and purpose in a world
that marks the passing of time with the passing of clouds, both fleeting and ancient.
The strain on my heart strings from this ancient
calling forces me to take flight with wings
only half-realized and a yearning for something more in a world
that, though fluid and wild and free, requires solid earth
underfoot and the sprawling, suffocating, deep roots
of a live oak whose own foliage block out its stretch of sky.
There is an old saying'”in the burning of your house, you see the sky.
And from there? What can you see then? That unending ancient
cycle of birth and death and light and darkness, everything that roots
us to our place in a universe where the wings
of angels are as ethereal as the earth
itself is real. We, too, are a cycle, a quick breath of life in the world.
Requirements abound in my world.
I battle them, and I fight and struggle so hard to free myself that the sky
I really only had an intention of touching now becomes my only home. Earth,
forsaken, becomes too stable and secure and in the end, stifling, more so than even our most ancient
mountains, to let me live with a full heart and wings
both at rest and in motion, without fear that mutually exclusive these words are: prison and roots.
And yet I crave my own. Amazingly, there are those who don’t mind their roots
or the steadiness that they bring to their lives and homes and families and world.
By my own design and failings, I have none of that. I have nothing saves wings,
but they are mine and in their own right, they are safe, as am I, up in clouds and sky.
But what of it? What am I without anything to hold me, cradle me in our ancient
need for stability and grounding? Humans have needed that since we first walked on this earth.
In a tangled mess of roots and limitless indulgent sky
lies my world and my failings steeped in insecurities. If I give in to man’s ancient
need, Permanence, I commit an unforgivable deed'”clipped wings and bindings to an unforgiving earth.