Little Lights

She scatters her little lights through the flight of the owl,

gracefully settling down on the tiniest of branches,

holds his majestic weight like a cloud.

The eyes are watching, building, blowing,

scratching their little rhythms into place,

dividing their little quiet into spaces

unseen, unheard

until the sound of wind comes from the weight of the owl,

brings home fish for bear,

honey for bee

and the simplicity of her little lights,

thinking her unsubstantial thoughts

just so.

We want every moment stacked full of importance, making our contributions real, making us real.  But these little lights, they are the grace of a day.

© 2015 Andrea Mathews

Wingspan

Hawk, frozen in midair,

hawking around like a fly,

rubbing her fore feet together,

slipping into the deep sky

like a fish,

dying there,

hard as this color of hell.

 

She spread her wings

and stood there,

took off and watched herself

more than the air, the mountain,

her prey.

When the temperature dropped

below sea level, she rose higher,

skidding into the tops of things,

like her own reflection.

 

That’s when it happened.

 

She just stopped,

wingspan terminally measurable.

Who knows what she is thinking,

but the air has captured her,

she breathes on ice.

 

One would think she would be

planning her escape.

 

But if you look as high as the end

you will see from her eyes

that she has simply decided

to keep doing the same thing.

***

 

Is it the measurement you seek, or the flight? The measurement only measures over and over again to see if it matches the image.  The flight is uncertain, rare and alive.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014
red_tailed_hawk_7C2V5803

Transcendence

Wings fold, opening again like water.

Slipping into the blue serenity,

she winks into her next move.

She knows that shapeshifting

nuance that plows through you

like Tsunami—that knowing

the same as her flight,

certain without a single thing

to hold.

She pulls every observer

into her emptiness

until they are full of her flight.

Her snowfall visits again

late in the night

whispering,

saying and saying

the nothing.

 

 

Transcendence is not a battle, not even an effort. It is the grace to say yes to the tsunami of moving from caterpillar to butterfly. But crawling isn’t a problem to be solved, it is just another emptiness–like flying.

 

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

blue butterfly