Though they be as untried
as newborn birds,
that naked, that close to surprise,
at the last of it
they do not come to themselves
unless they fly…
Let fly then,
as nestlings released
for knowing the time…
Let sing then,
as song unbound
frees the singing heart…
Let be then
in the spider’s house
birthing worlds of wonder:
that words, making flesh
of the flight of silence,
can dwell among us.
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