February 1st.
55 degrees.
2 geese in perfect duo
fly
over the bridge together
back from winter.
A false Spring,
a lovely start.
A woman’s pair of beige dance shoes
hangs from the powerline
outside the theatre.
She always wanted to be
a tightrope walker.
We often throw ourselves higher,
sooner than we think we’re able to go.
Ostara, in her haste,
drops a white-washed paintbrush
on the robin blue eggshell sky
leaving a smatter of
pulled apart cotton cloud.
The birds still wait to be warmed
into rabbits.
To fly or to burrow?
Cannot take the sky
before I know how
to go to ground.
A strange circular rainbow appears
incomplete
behind a triangular treeline.
Not yet. Still, more rain.
I take a wrong turn into a dead end street
and theĀ Ouroboros symbol appears
on a glassblowers garage studio door
at the end of the alley,
and it’s no longer the wrong way
it’s the right symbol,
confirmation,
reminder.
I turn aroundĀ again
bite my own tail,
face the sun
waiting, turning from the dark
for two to agree
and become one.
