Scraps of lumber, a touch of paint,
with love, became a home.
To the smallest of the birds,
that to our yard would roam.

In his basement workshop,
Grandpa would spend hours.
With his hand saw, brace and bit,
no use of electric power.

At each rip of the saw,
I'd hear that familiar sound.
I'd watch as sawdust drifted,
like pixie dust, to the ground.

With blackened nails and hammer,
he'd assemble the bird houses.
Then he'd paint them brightly,
adding curliques and flounces.

A bit of wire in a hook,
then hung in the Pear tree.
Filled our mornings with the song,
from the Finches and Chick-a-dees.

someone once told me
that ink is time
and words are simply the shadows of our minds.

I dangle my feet off the cliff i stand on,
and take a leap into
the unknown of things
that aren’t what they say to be.
as i fall, fate follows me
and the fear of dying
falls with me to
the sky……

and then i’m flying,
flying with wings
marred with melted tar and ragged strings

the sun that hates to see me fly so high
sees me break the horizon
as i climb up and up and
up
with my ink-stained wings
of wax and tar and melted dreams.

the words flow and then they fall
like ink from the frosted bottle
and people see me and they say
stop it
stop flying
stop writing.    

but how?
how do you stop time?
how do you stop the ink running down your fingers,
reaching out to form veins up your arms
and a heart over your chest,
trailing around you like a vine--
only it doesn’t choke you;
It envelops you with curling tendrils
of curliques and bends

you grow wings stained in bluberry ink and
violet gray mist
and then you fly away from this world,
from the cliff that anchors you to earth.
you fly onwards into the sky,
through the light that leaves the taste of blueberries and
almonds in your mouth.

the ink that connects you to those who’ve lived before you,
and before your ancestors and your grandparents,
who have written the words of the world before.
now it’s your turn, and
you pick up that pen,
and when you do so,
the glory of flying and the
feeling of invincibility
live in you as it did in the
soul of Icarus,
but this time,
you won’t fall from the sun
you’ll reach out and grasp with your ink stained hands
the wonder and the hope of the universe,
and the world will reside in the cup of your hand
the taste of feather and blueberries will linger
as you swoop and curve,
flying your pen across the sky
with wings as dark as the night sky.