"Becoming" by John Muro
Becoming
I stand here but am not here
adrift in summer air, a kind
of sleep, soundless, yet able
to hear the birds ambush darkness
with song and resurrect a world,
graciously given, where all is
unveiled in spectral splendor
while the heart expands with wonder:
a choir in each cough of wind;
the rupture of fragrance from
each blossom that astonishes
and agitates the soul, and the way
random miracles gather, some
cupped in the well of my hand,
others, eye-distant, peripheral
enough to convince us to lean empty
and closer-in like a balsa tree—
more air than wood—its honey-
combed body traversing the under-
growth with lithesome ease and
a weightless want that propels it
beyond the threshold of a luminous
canopy, where, in supplication, its
lush sprawl greens a distant heaven.
Photo Credit: Kaylee Wallace