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.
