Skeins of thoughts
entangle me
in razor-barbed-wire
and quicksand—
I’m a P.O.W. in my own mind.
When, in a moment
of cease-fire and
divine grace,
on the crest
of the ridge,—
like a river
on the wind,—
rushing
across the
sky,,
I lift the gaze
to witness the heraldry—
A skein of wild geese
that releases me—
with their wild and jubilant,
corporeal cries
of sweet and
glorious freedom