Poetry – The Edge of the Wind

The Edge of the Wind

The gull glides

With the freedom to seek its own destiny.

It moves by instinct

Beautifully through the air.

It has no beliefs that it would die for.

Hanging on the wind’s edge

Wings grip the sliding air

Suspended over the teeming crowds.

But I am the drifting skid

Of the edge of the wing

Slicing through the watery air.

I am the shriek of the pebble

In the distance

Screaming to be heard.

I am what the tree reaches for

Hung through the endless sky.

Turn your head and take delight.

Opher 1985

I wrote this long ago as part of my mystical series. I was taken with the idea of flying was really perpetual falling. Yet in that falling was freedom.

I was taken with the idea of living in the now instead of scheming for the future.

I was taken with the idea of consciousness. What was alive? What was the mystical element in the universe?

Shouldn’t we, like the gull, delight in the moment?

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