Portend this day from that day:
disjointed dreams and pale gold flights.
Open two palms, hinged at thumbs,
to release the final fledgling,
damp-feathered bundle,
trembling with newborn hopes.
Will she fly? Will she?
Out of that pale gold sea
of yesterday. Lay waste
the fields of fire
where now only embers gleam.
A moment of peering
into my own ancient eyes
of so many lives ago,
wondering if I might have missed
a whispered warning, a clue,
a Morse-coded map
tapped with two soft finger pads
into this emptied palm
or with one knuckle
at the third eye between my two
to find its open door,
to have been a better guide
for such a stumbling path.
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