Winter Fledgling

By Roy Doughty
Written 4/30/07

For so many days, the sky remains closed to us.
These are circumstances that have been decreed
By the hands of generations of fearful men,
Who have worked assiduously to build roofs
To protect them, so that now too often we find
Ourselves shelled in by an egg, not designed to hatch,
But to fester, the chick inside, not developing, but disintegrating,
The shell being all that it knows, its food the bitter yolk
Of confinement.  Somehow, however, men grow sane,
And women return to their roles as nourishers,
Both cured when they’re suddenly touched at the zero-center.
Now our visions of cities of stone turn to cities of crystal.
How is it that love can take shape, even here, under roof?
Is it because the sky breathes in our bones?
Is it because large flakes of gold and silver
Flutter down on us in moments of unsought silence,
A snow of prosperous freedom, within whose comforting blizzard
Even the skyless bird can find its wings?

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