You are not a tree;
not rooted in place,
not married to the dirt
which has smothered you
since birth.
You are not the moon,
not stuck in darkness,
not forced to reflect
a warmth that will never
be your own.
You are not the sea,
not blue expanses or
unknowable depth,
not lighted pyre corridor
boiling with sorrow.
You are a bird, love:
so stretch your sun-warmed
wings to the sky
and throw your throaty song
to the wind.
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