Sticks and Stones

sticks and stones may break my bones

From stepping stone
to stepping stone I go 
The muck waiting below

Bog, marsh, whatever---
dark, sticky tar-mud
that makes you dull
fills your eyes 
and ears and mouth
Kills you slowly.

From stepping stone
to stepping stone I go 
The muck waiting below

I tire so 
of stepping stones
Some days they're
as dull as the mud
Stone, rock, boulder
Over and over and over

From stepping stone
to stepping stone I go 
The muck waiting below

Enough!  I refuse
to take another step.
But then the mud
salivates about my ankles
and gnaws and whispers
failure, Failure

sticks and stones may break my bones

A crow flies down
and perches at my feet
Go away, I tell him,
I'm not dead yet

The crow, unafraid
cocks his head 
and looks at me
with eyes like glass splinters

With a rush of wings
he is gone
leaving only the flash
of an abandoned feather

It glimmers
and in this dark land
its hidden colors
shine like rainbows

Then I see them all
Forgotten plumes litter the mire
glinting like mirror shards
Discordant pieces of a whole

I scramble through the marsh
harvesting feathers
I dredge them from the mud
with my bare hands

It is not easy
The eager filth clutches at me
It snarls my fingers 
and hisses its damning song

I ignore it.

I gather the feathers
into my lap
I cut my long hair
and weave them together

Like Daedalus of old
I will escape
this dank fen,
my own dark maze

I spread my wings
and pull the wind

I open my eyes, and ah, my eyes
become a pair 
Of stars in the sky

sticks and stones may break my bones
but my words might free me