Imagine, if we stopped migrating
birds at the border . . .
Said, “No, this stretch of sky,
sea, and land are out of order
Can you perch someplace else,
Perhaps, in your native trees?”
These are the wandering years . . .
homeless, at last
become beckoning reality
Lovers of longings’ song
and whispered promises
all the colors once fixed
now, profusely bleed
Just as constellations disperse
the pattern no longer discernible
here, within reach, the future looms
high as imagination, deep as fear.
*These poems will appear in a forthcoming anthology to be published by Better Than Starbucks.
You can read the announcement, here