The Days

Yesterday I was no more
than a house sparrow,
wire claws, swollen size,
wings baying to branches
without disturbing leaves.
Yesterday I was hidden,
a hut in snowfell Canada,
harvested forest fire
razing in my chest,
the guitar of a frozen,
beloved boy
played there,
as he did when we
were nineteen.
Yesterday I was a handpan
beneath pale fingers
floating on a Man'o'war sea.
I was a man'o'war
not long before.
Today I no longer
push wings from my spine cracks.
I no longer steal myself
into a well of white flecks
to hide the shame
of being a broken beast,
of everyone seeing it.
I let the moon race in,
chase inside
as if a child,
from a pool with their Sister.
Today I let the sound of Pan
echo from his forest,
song no longer cracking
my human frame.
Today I could move
through seas of stinging,
feel everything and be
no more wounded
or howling to pass it by.
These days have been
a way to know my whole self,
know her spirit's holy,
forgive and relieve.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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