A shadow cast
on perilous branches:
a requiem howls
at rot,
climbing toward
the center,
hope
a finger tip’s breadth
out of reach.
You are not alone,
whispers the leaf:
trembling,
separate,
but linked
to a vein,
a hollow through which
life flows,
a cavern of need.
Condensed,
we
shuffle and trip.
A tiny voice,
is this it?
A louder call,
surely we have fallen:
made worse
by the convictions
of many.
But a flower
questions not
its way of unfolding,
and an ant not
its driving imperative.
Only towering minds,
feeble and violent,
lay waste
to the order of things.
The color of love is honey,
which, built into reservoirs,
sustains.
The first pollen taken,
the bloom fruits
round in circles
spheres,
spirals,
fractals:
the taken gives,
the taker rewards,
but broken hands
yield no promises
and despair
offers only regrets.
A mantra of intent
yields a movement
and by each step,
forward and back,
a dancer’s numbered steps
reveal
broken hands
can still reach.
Should it be
dark or light,
measured by
passion or precision,
a ponderous body
becomes grace
when the weights are lifted
from the feet.
For while driven down,
bound under pressure,
wracked by gravitas,
defiance lifts,
rebellion loosens,
as life is meant to glide.
~Anna Chlewicki Lightfoot~
