I know things a wren doesn't know.
The less you own, the heavier you grow.
A bird is a latch.
My eye is a key, but how do I know what
a red nose and doesn't mean?
The mystery of knowledge is the mystery of wings.
Opening my wings, I open a door to the sky.
Closing my wings, I fold the sky inside myself.
They have always been two skies.
No?
And I must bear the firmament inside
as sheer eternity and a secret.
Until opening my wings that inner native blue
is restored to vertical and alien infinitude.
I know things a finch doesn't know.
Songs, for instance.
One song goes, the soul dies often.
The body dies once.
Another song goes, wind in the trees, wind in the trees,
no heaven at last for me.
But heaven all along to receive upfront my inheritance
of daily eternity dispatched by wind in the trees.
But how do I know what a finch knows or doesn't know?
The mystery of knowledge is the mystery of open and closed.
Opening my eyes, I open a door onto a world
you and I both see.
Closing my eyes, I open a door onto a world only I see.
The mystery of worlds, shared and unshared,
is the mystery of worlds within worlds, is the mystery of eyes.
Open your eyes.
Look.
Oh, what depth of secret the sky be, and what a nearness.