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Glory
Angela Yarber |
Neverland
Mitch McClure
Perched on skis above the white world
you have a snowy owl’s wide-angled view -
rocky ridges, lodge roofs, the broken scaffolding
of abandoned Utah copper mines -- and flight,
for a moment, seems entirely possible. Just turn
down the steep runway, and magic jets
schuss through powder and ice crystals,
spraying the fairy dust of childhood
up into your eyes. Tinkerbell’s kiss
still lingers, wet and cold on your cheek
after all these years. She tells you
to leave it all behind, your defunct life,
your mined out ambition, and leap with her
into the icy white stars, turning left at forever
to play chase with gravity.
Your edges carve the sweet S-curves
down that long, undulant slope, pulling you
into her perfect body, invisible
but for the twinkling light of the voice
that calls you home.
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Eggshell
On the Morning of the Olympic Torch
July 13, 1996
Sandra Clay
Today I found a robin egg;
The half was on the ground.
The heart was gone;
The life had flown.
Only the shell was found.
Today a joyful picture came:
A girl, fresh-born and new.
Her mother’s womb,
A memory:
Her life to living flew.
Today I see in memory’s eye
A body on a bed:
A soul set free
To live again,
Released to life, not dead.
From shell to shell, move we who live,
And not one shell, a tomb.
A journey sparked
Creates a life
Not bound by womb or tomb.
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Abandonment
Angela Yarber
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