The Passage of Birds

We follow the flight of birds
as colours change
and the North wind blows
it’s first born breeze.

Now cold life marries,
death blossoms a seasons
subtle turning. Bloom I,
the suicide of One realizing
flesh through seed and fire.

This is a moment smothered
in earth, no air, no room
to grow, increments of I
in time frozen from thought.

Fractured passing’s kiss me
from above and beneath.
I lament a history, mirror
reflecting my migration.

We follow the flight of birds….

(c) A Hannan


5 thoughts on “The Passage of Birds

  1. The birdsong by her door,
    Like rains of an early spring
    Falls upon her eyes, sleeping
    In the eyes of winter

    Full of white, cold snow
    And gazing, the field, fallow,
    Where furrows are ploughed
    By unseen, white fingers;

    And seeds, from her ripe breasts,
    A fragile green calling the sky,
    Eyes, new and ever tender
    Heeding the ripple of birds

    In the palm of the seasons,
    A procession, birth to birth,
    A lament of death, joyful wisdom,
    Following the flight of birds.

    • I am hidden
      Behind 100 veils of my own making.

      I have been shown the path to my heart
      Yet I always hold back
      Caressing the moon on my tongue,
      Bathing in sunlight, drinking haiku.

      How can I reach his summit
      Unless I leave this silken cocoon?

      I pause…
      Argue… it is only holding back,

      I know, butterflies emerge from cocoons.

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