flash forward to the poem born at the bottom of the beginning near the end; feet first, land softly all-ready to stand as a poem stands melting upward
the door they walk through has no knob made of song; i ask when they will teach how to arrive
like birds who crack the night and call the dawn
MAKE ME BIRD
with thunders that hum frivolously fervently make me bird with wings that open from the back and the front
make me a door with no knob
MAKE ME A SONG
Quick Pause for Self-Promotion: A big shout out to the paid subscribers! Your generosity helps me sustain this sharing practice. It has been a practice! AND a big shout out to ALL subscribers. Everyone’s participation in whatever form is helping me play the long game. Nine months of Substack, and I’m feeling my feet; the writing that was so long on pause, has regained a pulse. Going forward, I will bravely place the more decadent content below the paywall - as originally intended - while reserving one (occasionally two) posts for full public consumption per month.
Now… If you can read below this line, (you are a paid subscriber! thank you!) please start at the top and read again all the way through (slowly) without stopping at this little stone in the road. Abrazos!
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Spell in the Woods to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.