Ilsa always dreamed of floating like a feather—
She prayed to be delivered
From the heavy hand of gravity.
Inside her soul, there was never any up or down,
Only quickly moving shafts of light
Breaking into beams of melody.
She was meant to be a bird in flight
Or an arrow sent to soar above the hills.
But an arrow always falls to ground
With a whisper like a voice that tapers off...
She would never make a sound
If it jeopardised her freedom.
Always she would circle ever wider,
Gathering her courage
For an entry into higher realms of rapture.
Movement was the means of her release.
Bent like a bow, springing into action
With the concentrated motion of a dancer,
She was most alive when summoning an answer.
©2016 Michael Fraley
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