I am a bird, who has drawn its cage around.
A spinning top,
which has spun itself into delirium.
A body, cushioned by the ocean,
sinking into oblivion.
That the head leads
up until the heart quakes and stops,
is a truth we are forced into accepting.
That when I rise I am an eagle,
and when, through weariness or grief,
or fear, I descend,
then I am a stone gathering speed
before coming to a sudden jolting halt.
Or I am a crescent moon
low on the horizon,
receding as a tide at its ebb,
to then gather momentum to turn
and come flooding as moonlight on a field.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry