Sunday, October 11, 2009


author’s note:

I give birth the way an opossum does–my offspring are born poorly formed and diminutive.  So, like the opossum, they require much nurturing after leaving the womb.


I’m flapping
the way a crane
flaps its wings
when trying to lift
from the lake.

I’m flapping my ears
after hearing Bird
elevate on
his saxophone--

I too want to ascend
to a heaven
of my own invention--
a heaven discovered
through stone work
and the whimsy
of creation.

But though I’m flapping
I’m still down.
My feet still wear
worn-out shoes
covered with old
flakes of doubt.

I am not the crane.
I am not the Bird.
So how can I rise
to heaven’s call?


didn’t the crane
once reside in an egg?
As did the Bird.
As did those petals of music
in their bud--?

I feel the heaviness
of the shell
on my shoulders and back
but I’m hoping

that if I can polish enough
through my attrition...

if I can dine on
enough meager meals
of disappointment...

if I can finally fully unravel
through these interior revolutions...

and then...

--after all that frightful battle--
arrive at the wisdom of surrender

maybe–I said maybe--
this crust will crack.

© 2009, Michael R. Patton
earnest audio
new steps

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