Some days it’s the fern

Other days the fig

Leaves that layer over love

And lined in veins of valor

Trickling streams of soft understandings

And hard edges to fall off of

Into sacred crevices of learning

Some days it’s the ravens

Other days the hawks

Feathers fly over landscapes

Seeing worlds of wonder

Of horror 

Of change 

Rising 

To view

Falling empires and fleeting moments 

Babies uttering words for the first time

And off they fly in a flash 

Growing independent 

Breathing on ambers of possibility 

Sometimes forgetting about interconnected

networks of reality 

Other times reminding parents of 

Corporeal laws of existence 

Sometimes it’s the babies

No longer babies

Other times it’s the eldering process

That flickers fantasies of flying

Through the dark light of night 

Wandering willows

Traveling oaks

Soil searching softly 

Relentlessly 

Sometimes it’s fern that welcomes dewdrops 

From a redwood 

And sometimes it’s my mind

Made of moss and mist 

Covered in ashes

Ready to midwife wings