I see you there
south of Iceland:
the sky is clear
Red and orange beyond the horizon
eat up the earth, but you
are above it all
heading home
out of the snow:
beauty, not the beast
And here we are, above it all too,
flying toward heaven
not seeing the abyss below:
flames licking at the grass…
Feeling like grass,
I watch the wind increase,
and something that seems like the sun
creeps along my body
as if it is not sure where to go
among the hills and hollows