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.
©2021 Linda Chown
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