Under the Everlasting

Just this morning your shoulder blades sprouted wings,
equal parts muscle and feather, angel and dove.
White with the peace at the centre of every battle
waging for your call, my love, the word I spoke in childhood.

Return to your pure soul, who you are in quietude.
Sense now the plumed flight quivering at your back,
as you step to the edge of the roof in this silver mining town
and lean into the whisper of wind there.

Another word for faith: knowing the second after the leap
your own spirit-body will rise up beating,
equal parts muscle and feather, angel and dove.
One who lives under the everlasting understands such things.

 

View the painting that inspired the poem.


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