the dream of the white bird flying
offers a freedom as tasty as nectar
how our lips purse to the goddess's pap
at the want of such swoops through the air

to be rid of the drag on our legs
the sloshing through drudgery and mire
the daily entangling with bramble
the hurt of our hair caught in barbs

when there in the bowl of our eye
that milky-white shaft through the sun
pierces old canopies revealing
heights that have never been deemed

then to be up and away forgetting
icarus has been there before us
white heat is the worst of all fires
we're dust before the dream's gone cold

there's no bird doesn't need its tree
with its leaden roots buried in earth
and the earth needs its water - all
things that fly with their fine-pointed rage

must have cool fruits to come down to
before ecstasy and soaring can yield
the unimaginable answers sustaining
the longings all born are bequeathed