It is a mystery of spirits
that miss the human traits.

Itís a fallacy of humans
that fumble  their own shadows.

We are wandering and vanishing
in somewhat bigger appoint.

Yet, whatever's  lost
is like a cry of a dove
being shot out of the sky.

We are all bad poets.
Until we fall.

Then, all is clear
and limpid, like a cheetah's  leap.

There are only images of mind
and that's how we dance.

No other explanation.

copyright  Jann C. Castor  © 2000