Slow as breath prayer, the sun etches away
the dark, exhales over the volcanic peaks, reaches
yellowed fingers into every crevice of the waiting world.
And oh, how I wish to become part of that kind of light.
The bird songs begin, unfamiliar to my ears, then this
glimpse of a golden crest and long turquoise tail - beauty
that matches the unfolding hue and melody of the day.
And oh, how I wish to become part of that kind of wonder.
The wind picks up, and condors stretch their massive wings
as they rise from their rest, soar on the drafts, circle without
effort, this intimate conversation with sun and song and wind.
And oh, how I wish to become part of letting the air sustain me.
But I don’t have wings or fingers of light - only my own small
melody. So I will learn to fly like this song - to feel dawn warm
the bones, to catch the slightest stir in the heart, to carry it up.
About the author:
When an astrologer told her she had no “earth” in her birth sign, Ruth Zwald set about finding ways to ground. On her farm in West Michigan, Ruth starts every day with good coffee, tends large gardens, and lives close to the earth through her lifestyle and spiritual practices. Upon retirement, she also started to unearth words. In 2024, Ruth was named winner of the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press Chapbook Contest for her collection entitled, “Bones And Breath.” She has also recently been published in Humana Obscura, Farmer-ish Journal, Poetry For Mental Health, The Guilded Weathervane and The Bluebird Word. You can find out more about Ruth by visiting her website: www.spiritlinkservices.com
Part of our Winter 2026 Issue. New stories, poems, and essays now through January 31, 2026.
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