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by Linda Jenkinson |

photo credit: Sponchia

to the summit i soar and my wings
are clipped
i fall thrashing and spinning.
inevitable defeat.
ground rushes in quickly,
quickly—the end.
ah blessed relief—
still, i'll fly again.

my spirit will glide on a heavenly plain.
i'll rise, wheeling and turning,
soaring again,
my eyes filled with morning
as dawn recreates
a new beginning—
an end to the thrashing,
relief from the spinning
seeing the world emerge from the night
fast fading gray into new shining light
ah blessed relief—
i'll fly.

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