There is an art, they say, to falling.
Turn one’s face to the side.
Stay loose, arms and legs bent,
body relaxed. It is an art I am yet to master,
falling more likely face first, catapulting
headlong, fearing to miss one tiny step
in this affair of love. For that’s what it is.
Drawn by all that busies itself around me—
that causes the earth to understand
how seasons teach with color,
that life is clarified by flashes of feathered
wings against an already remarkable sky
and by the healing silence
trapped between notes of song—
it is this unadulterated lust
for the grace of life
that I practice.
* * *
Poem and photo by Mary O’Connor © 2016