December 9

CLIMBING ON THE ARC

If time swings and the seasons swirl and I pulse out my existence, why does the bird's wing flap and the rain fall down?  If the song comes from my mother’s lips and my father tells his tales and I dance my heritage with each step I take, then why does the flower open to the bee and the swan trumpet her way home?  If everything pulls from the ground and reaches for the light, then how can I duck my head, hide my heart and pass this all off as a coincidence?  Am I less than the rain or greater than the swan?  Why can’t I just climb on the arc and let the continuum spin its web around me?  Well, you see I can, but will I?

  Let little birdies speak.