Icarus

The ocean below, the high searing sun above, enclosed in a labyrinth
not meant to leave behind, my spirit finds a way to fly on makeshift wings,
hoping neither water nor fire will trap its freedom song and beating, feverish heart.

But why bother, reason comes to mind, when all you have to be is content with the earth
beneath your feet. Does it not provide you with abundant green grass at day and the light
of stars at night? Is there not a song in your heart, must you also want it to fly?

In between acceptance and delusion, the ocean's roar lulls me to sleep each time,
only to haunt my dreams on wings of fancy where my words can toss their shackles
to roam free, high in the sky where your dreams have found safe anchor among storm and tides.

Who can know why your feet fly free, neither too low, nor too high, your course not sluggish,
nor running too fast and avoids leaving tracks that are nothing but dry, withered, charcoaled paths?
There is a place for you that is just right, your wings are strong and not held together with dead feathers and wax. 

So I will keep on and fly on high, leaving the foaming ocean's roar to scream its discontent,
to feel the sun burning its mark upon my brow, to scowl at my fierce attempts to be free.
Do not dismiss my odyssey as I reach up with seared wing to where you drink from ample fountain
where neither sea nor desert mountain burn your step or flight.


Trudi Ralston.
February 25th, 2017.
For Dr. Driss Ouaouicha.