Flight

Blue-and-white swallows ascend to the courtyard pool,

Circling, swooping, skimming unseen delicacies from the water’s surface,

The Flight swirls above Eithne on her daily swim,

Brushing silvery spun cotton with each encounter, each stroke.

‘I’ve been dive-bombed,” Eithne giggles, though it’s reminiscent of blue birds fanning Cinderella’s gown — a fairytale in the mountains of Costa Rica.

Within the Center Circle, vibrant and alive,
Eyes scan the canopy and are rarely denied.

Chachalacas, Kiskadees, Toucans, Coatis,

Look away and possibilities are lost,

Disappearing down the ravine like mango skins tossed from a second-story window.

Retreat.

Yes, I arrive here withdrawing. And within hours, rise up confronting.

Core wounds festering ooze into prose unfolding, layered with depth and truth.

We summon grief, anger, peace and connection,
Descend into angst, fall in love with imperfection.

Emotions released scatter to the wind, giving way to the elusive image of my mom,

Gone 22 years, her Cancer death confines my creativity, heightens my sensitivity.

Transformation.

Left tending to these wounds, with their power and purpose to constrict?

Withering. Writhing. WRITING.

Awakening.

By Diana Lasseter Drake