Come, let us measure the distance
between shores.
For if we measure the distance

between shores
we may become
the wings of blackbirds.

Feel the acrid wind
release us
from the salty mist

the empty rooms
of our lighthouse
where we pace the floors

warming our hands
with rosaries and rhinestones.
Fly to the cliffs

where the tides keep our graves
and flowers fade
in death’s impatient vase.

                                     ~~
                                 

 Come, let us find new wind
new colors of the wind
green -

wind full of tears
from the eyes of children
mourning the landscape

gold -
wind turning tears to snow
above our wings
white -
wind that whispers
to the child

hush, do not cry
your soul is a lullaby
singing to me.

 
                                    ~~

White, let us fly into white.
White hills, white rivers
white water on the sea

white ash when we return
white ash when we leave.
White flowers in the snow

snow that mourns the child
birds that mourn the flowers
ash that fills the vase.

 
                                   
                                    ~~

Come, let us sail
with the sound of wind
and listen

to the tenor of the tides
the songs of children
inside our sails.

Take the ocean to our lips
and play as if it were a saxophone
as if we were drowning

as if the moon
was all that could float
without wind, without wings.

By Brian Michael Tracy