This poem arrived last week.  I’m just starting to understand why I needed it.  Rumi said: “Poetry holds its meaning loosely, like a rock in a sling.  We let fly.  The rest is out of our control.”  I think I’m also just starting to get what that means.  Just fly.  Just fly.

An eagle soars:
held aloft
by breadth of wing
and breath of wind
in effortless
grace and strength.

Oh, to have a faith
as lovely as the eagle’s flight.
Pure dance of
creator and created.

I’m afraid that my faith
more closely resembles
a duck’s flight: 

What effort!
Ducks neither flit nor soar,
but move with purpose.
Wings squeak in their earnestness.

Is there anything poetic about
a duck in flight?

Sunlight catches
the underside
of rapidly flapping
wings
flashing white–
glittering reflections
of light
streaking across
the sky.

© J.L. Sanborn, 2015.  All rights reserved.

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