A blanket, wrapped, did fall
from over wicker cage—
a basket or a golden carry-all—
and with it flew an ebon rage
upon the doves of heaven.
They pirouetted, by and by
yet though we cried for thoughts to leaven
they flew on until the sun between them sighed,
us standing pinioned beneath
daggers flown beyond their sheath.
Alone among the pines
only the mountain
ascension starlight left behind
when celestial fingertips
brushed our dreams.
Three times the circling crows
three notes like fleshed blows:
“What more to see?”
all upon the roost but he,
one foot to grave, yet wings to spread:
“Nothing more, and no thing to dread.”
Round and round about they sang
the freedom of the hollow frame
it withers with the whistle-winter
flutters as petals on the grassy heather
same, and yet, a broken same
lost but never found its earthen pang.
The lake is empty.
Roots have left this shore.
Freedom to be free,
containment shattered by the waves of yore–
all of It will cease to be
before they see that less is rarely more.
Empty Lake Bed, (from iDesign iPhone Wallpapers)
“Freedom has its life in the hearts, the actions, the spirit of men and so it must be daily earned and refreshed – else like a flower cut from its life-giving roots, it will wither and die.”
~Dwight D. Eisenhower
“There are two freedoms – the false, where a man is free to do what he likes; the true, where he is free to do what he ought.”
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