In the dim light at dawn, a hawk takes flight,
skimming the silken surface of a rain-soaked stream.
As the air stirs and jogs the dangling branches,
cast off leaves are launched, drifting
and gliding on a journey downstream.
Spiny brown pods tumble along the path, slender webs span impossible
gaps, vines and tendrils wrap the woody growth while massive oaks support
and shelter all.
Here I see a plane, a boat, the glimmer of idea that made a wheel. Here the bridge to cross
a chasm. There a sturdy, woven rope. Here the outline
of a roof. And there, just there, the foundation and buttress of a wall.
We imagine what we imagine has no bounds, that human dreams
exist unique, unfettered by the world. We imagine we can do
without all that.
What, I ask myself, will happen when we cut the tie, that tether of connection
to what spawned us? What will fuel
imagination then? In a world devoid of wings, could we imagine
how to fly?
© Karen Kleis – All Rights Reserved
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