Dissertation on the Art of Flying
Chris Harold (bio)

The sun bronzes willow branches,
slice of fire on the snow,
frozen houses hunkered down.

Chopin’s piano, a rim of sunrise. Soul.
I drop into this moment
where the muse enters, shining light

on fading words. Wanting
is all we have, our last star in the night.
Bumping against one another in the dark,

we are too often silent.

Once I had a friend, awkward, luminous,
brilliant. A great winged bird forced
to hop along the ground.

It was easy to laugh, until
his wings filled with sky.

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