At The Edge Of Departing Things

I am poised on the edge of myself gazing at the wind
As it shows in the billowing shape of departing things.
I think of taking the leap, of leaving the husk of myself
As I climb the column of air, holding onto the swirling
Swells, the subtle complex lines of the world I know.

This is what has become of me in my time here.

There were dreams and changes in the dreams,
Changes beyond the dreams and all, all I held
Close, fashioning saddles of the shape of them.
Saddling up, I rode the backs of these smoky beasts.
They turned as they willed, exhausted placed me

Here at the edge where I can touch the outer air.

Listen! The soaring birds call up the wind of my sight.
I have kept them close by sharing my life with them.
I give to them what I can of me, of dreams I have held.
All the while I have sung songs like this one,
Echoes of the music in the beat of my heart.

The sounds of me and of the birds weave a spell
So wild and wondrous, I have never measured up.
(I once heard the reach of Your voice as it called
Me from an early fall, and gifted me with songs
Like this and so I sing in all the holy ways I can.)

I fly with birds. Our weave folds into windy space.

This is what has become of me in my time here,
Here at the edge where I can touch the outer air.
I fly with birds. Yes, I fly with birds.
Our weave folds into windy space.