Finding our north, we fly
over the tops of mountains,
white-petalled stonecrop, stars
beneath our wings.

Wild roar of the waterfalls
echoes in our ears;
we are bathed in rainbows
and quenched by the rising mist.

Center of the solar system
we soar atop our kingdom;
time unfolds in the wingspan
of ancient memory.

Gliding over a thousand years
of storm-washed stone,
we hover at the edge of day,
instinctively knowing
we are headed for home.

6 thoughts on “Migration

  1. BoardFlak

    The last verse brings up an interesting question: which end of their migration pattern would be home for them? North? South? Or is migration itself where they feel most comfortable?

  2. Michael,

    Or maybe it’s all a metaphor for life and death…I’m not really sure.
    It’s one of those poems that I felt like I just held the pen and it kind
    of wrote itself. I like the questions that it brought to your mind.

  3. BoardFlak

    Ah, something like this?

    Zen for Poets

    When all the words arrive on cue,
    and all the rhymes lay out just so;
    then all your work seems done for you
    while you sit back and watch it go.

    Alas, such times are all too rare.
    Ask any poet and each one knows;
    when the mind offers up such fare
    hurry and write before it goes.

    By: Michael Williams / August 28, 2019

  4. Thank you, Charlie,

    Autumn is my favorite season. Even though it is precursor to rest,
    it is the season that makes me feel most alive and grateful to be so.
    Judging by the delightful energy of DOodlewash, I’m guessing Autumn
    pleases you a great deal too. ❤

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