Hold onto it Now | Linda Chown

And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be 
       Are full of trees and changing leaves,
                 Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

Soft bird,  as though we’ve only just begun,
The way our arms reach upwards as though
Hanging in a William Blake painting 
In which closeness is everything
The spiritual become all physical
A radiant yellow cloud of pulsing light 
In spite of all the bad light around
This beauty only makes a luscious sound
Soft bird,  you and I continue to soar 
Onward and upwards forever more.