“Flight of Birds” by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Watching the patterns of these birds in flight,
fluid as music on a page and white
as falling petals, I find swift escape.
Then all st once my life takes sudden shape,
and I can understand the misprized art
of reading palms or tea leaves in a cup,
remember wise men searching in the skies,
looking for omens in the tracks of birds,
telling the future in cloud-darkened lines.

It is not  fate in these external signs
we read, it is ourselves – ourselves we see,
transmuted into bird or cloud or tree,
familiar fragments, here arranged in form,
as a kaleidoscope contains the power
from common specks and straws to make a flower.

Act of creation in which the stone,
the sculptor, and the spectator, are one –
here, where the art and artist  coincide,
where universe and private world collide,
magic of  mandala and Rorschach meet,
and childhood memories again repeat
who loses life shall gain it – miracle!
The heart reborn upon a flight of birds
can now accept and recognize in words.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh
The Unicorn and Other Poems

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