We are the flight we imagine,
inbred patterns in echelon
where the self is all,
akin to sky-writing
crop circles in the air
to mimic life below,
it is colder here above
earlier as a sign, at times
the wisps filigree all the way to earth
as ice, but not today, I am left
with face upturned,
mouth wide-open to receive
rain, buckets of drops
in gulps, a blessed christening
of water and time, equally apportioned
to the deluge, forever
against the gray unbounded,
weightless without dimension,
tracing ancient veers in unison,
aligned to primal throbs for rhythm,
in the throes of sunlight and wind.

We are the light we’ve imagined,
the eternal unity, whorls:
the fingerprint of who.

In graceful arc with universal yaw
we dive to clear mid-air where
we imbibe wildly on the wing.

Chagall 2018

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