I planted seeds of flight at winters end,
waiting for the warmth of the Sun,
that its rays would lift my wings,
and make me really fly.

Cocooned in the comfort of darkness,
but tired of the wait.
Ready to stretch with hope of growth,
a maturity not yet reached.

Four questions, even five.

How is it, this cycle has no end?
Nor a circle no corner?
Who commands the Dawn's womb?
And instructs earths' heavenly dew?

Please tell me.

Is it you?

Waiting for heavens light,

Yours sincerely,

(SPACE)

Seeds of flight.


                   

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