http://nghomes.com/plugins/ The Passing Through
I am a body of small weather,
a wind through larger winds.
Nothing stays mine:
the scent of oranges,
the hush of dusk,
the stray dog nosing a wrapper.
But everything touches me for a second
and goes on.
I once thought I was the keeper,
hands cupped around what mattered.
Now I know I am the passing-through,
the brief warmth on a windowpane.
I give nothing back but this stirring,
this leaning toward.
The world holds.
Gonayiv The Sparrow
the morning started
with the sound of wings that weren’t there
a patch of yard held
what was left of a life
small as a breath,
light as a sigh
maybe a crow
maybe a hawk
maybe the sky itself
it didn’t matter who
only that the world had eaten again
and was clean about it
feathers like torn pages
scattered across dew
no sermon, no sin
just breakfast
i crouched,
and felt a kind of envy
for the certainty of hunger
looking at the feathers
i knew it wasn’t malicious
it was mealtime
it was survival dressed as cruelty
still,
somewhere inside the ribs of that quiet
i wished the world
had a gentler way
of keeping its feathers unruffled
Tira
Call it chance,
call it inheritance,
call it proof the universe still plays.
And every once in a while,
it sketches a new rule
in the dust of an old one.
Even the savanna
has its jazz moments;
a mistake that sounds like music,
a mark that wasn’t meant
but means everything.
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