Mythical

I am not Icarus

daring with waxen wings to sing a searing sun in flight

I am not Daedalus watching his child destroy a gift

I skim bluer waters beneath the sky

I surf the swells of a more careful sea.

These days are dreams

they barely touch the surface of my knowing,

the nights are clouds scudding across a fierce moon

as a riptide pulls me towards a breakwater.

I am a plant in a pot on your sill

drinking in the light, and growing.

There is safety in speaking.

From this window I see a swallow dart under the eaves,

fear snakes away, the illusions lifting.

20.5