when air grows heavy and tired
from too long falling,
day’s last birds will dive down
and in rising, shake it out before them
something, at least, is vibrant
is the message beaten out by wings
when you are lost, find stone that will
hold sun with radiant stubbornness
and if you lose your voice,
seek out wide swathes of grass –
for it’s grass that sings when
all other songs have gone
© Sarah Whiteley
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