A day it took looking high
A candle flickering
The sun burned by and I was
No compare clinging to wick
My soul, my bone, my skin
I emptied all pouring into scars
Salvation self to appear mirage to clear vision
Seeing saving all the marvelous things
Collected, did nothing in the end
In the beginning there was a word
Written on a manuscript thin
I did not notice it was not religious
But in the beginning it did begin
So I practiced years and searched and squandered
Appearing then departing wings, open as
The wings of birds in close formation from
winter migrating spring, the lone hunter of
The crowd vanished quick hawk decent
And I called forth from every court
Such as the King on wedding day intends
But if you read and went through it
All, I wonder on which day you strayed your pen.
I'll send the dogs, the seas, winds, and fog
To help you weave your song again.
Christopher Baird 2011 ©
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