June 5, 2011
[click to enlarge]
I could not draw him if I did not feel close to death.
And still he goes on singing.
I could not be him if he were less.
And so he goes on dreaming.
There was a waterfall that splashed on rocks
in the mountains near his home.
It was in a barren place beside the road,
where a giant had met his end.
So it was he guessed.
His father turned the wheel to stop.
The earth and sky confessed.
His mother knew the rest:
that all things be given, if they must exist.
Now, where once his heart had been,
a simple wish remains:
Dandelion, rock, feather.
And lo, the bird is on the wing.