Tiny Flesh

Tiny, tiny flesh; tiny flesh

slivering from sight,

a waning crescent's last night.

But for a pulse,

a throbbing,

an ache . . .

a water strider's wake.

Between transcendence

and breath . . .

between life and death.

Hunger has left.

The spirit hungers now

like a baby sparrow

with mouth open wide,

waiting for mother.

And mother always comes

And every bird is fed.

Someday, I will fly

with eyes that hunt,

and every berry, every worm

will be waiting in sight,

expecting my flight.

Until then, I wait,

with mouth open wide . . .

for mother.