Crucible
Above, the goshawk flashes
smoke tipped wings,
a dark blaze across smudged blue sky.
Such a bare chested faith in
feathers,
thermals,
hollow bones.
Does it dare you to follow,
to believe?
Trust
isn’t about courage
or skill.
Watch the hawk
unfolding,
falling,
lifting through resistance,
defenses withdrawn.
Grace is a boundless
crucible.
Without it,
wings are ash
on the ground.
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The vulnerability of being. The hawk, the poem said it all. Great piece ! ❤
Thank you, Mireille!
Goshawk… what a beautiful word.
All of it. I love al of it.
Thank you, Estora!