Flying Is For The Birds

Flying is for the Birds

Flying is for the birds.

Flowers take root into the ground.

Toes with dirt between them tread.

Grits of sand sliding through knuckled fingers.

Every bit is a pearl of wisdom.

Returning, ready in wait, for the next pursuer.

Time, blood, and sweat will determine the next pursuer

From far below, watching the birds

Intently, as seekers do when attaining wisdom

Resolved. Resolute. Their time not wasted on the ground.

What was it I used to grasp with these trembling fingers?

The foolish go where I fear to tread.

The brave are heading where I wish to tread.

Fleeing from my most recent pursuer.

The sand that is slipping through my fingers.

Ignoring the riotous caw of the birds.

As they fall at my feet, one by one, hitting the ground.

Each thud, an ache of wasted wisdom.

What was it that was so precious about wisdom?

All that is left are skids of the tire’s tread,

Veering from the street into the muck, hugging the ground.

Yet seemingly reaching out for the next pursuer.

Looking up will provide a glimpse of soaring birds

And the sparse trees with branches for fingers.

I see the bony knuckles of my fingers

And wish I had used them to grasp such wisdom.

She was right; hope is a bird

Flying to and fro, where nothing else is allowed to tread.

All at once, coaxing and evading, the next pursuer,

Encouragement to aim for something higher than the ground,

And remembering that all must eventually return to the ground.

My hand is in the other hand, clutching fingers.

I’m resolved to greet the next pursuer,

Embracing spared crumbs of wisdom,

One foot in front of the other, relearning to tread,

Taking each cue from the birds,

Who refused to take their cue from the ground,

According to conventional wisdom,

That I now embrace within my fingers

While still carefully placing each tread.

I consider myself the next pursuer,

Looking towards the sky, chasing the birds.