On Flightless Wings Poem by Christian Thomas Scott

Some branches,
Worn with intermittent hands,
Have grown sturdy. In order that
Time might be spent
Upon
Them.
Small years grow at once: fulfilling
Simple
Steps. Yet
When reached,
The years grow long, for
Only slowly
Do living towers reach
The stars.
And these old scatterings
Of wood,
Have sliced the light
Away.
And again.
Sleeping silently until that crash
Of waves: when the
Wind
Blows.
For what other ship
Has sails for every
Breath?
And when they fall,
Are picked up again?
Have not the flames
Burned hearts
In the mind?
And to this heat, we
Cast our frozen dreams,
That once thawed we might
Recover them,
Before the ashes are consumed.
And frozen
Are the flames
Within the
Green. As lifeblood and
A mist. For unclarity is
Edged.
From earth,
To sky,
The light of world lives.
And giving life in
Footsteps.
Yet only when they feel
For mossy
Blankets, in the darkness,
In the shadow:
Can we breathe?
Yet it is better
To hold on to
Branches.
With our hands,
So time might
Be spent
On sturdy ground
Above the
Earth.