by Ethel Mortenson Davis
In memory of Donald Sharp and Rumi
Was it the spring stream,
flowing out of the escarpment
tumbling, bubbling over fallen birch trees?
Or was it the large, sloppy snowflakes
falling in the spring morning’s forest,
as trees held their breath,
held their breathing
for the sun to overtake the cold,
that made my wings open and close,
readying me to take flight?