By Ken Woodley
My long and desperate sleep is over.
No more subterranean dreams about constellations.
Darkness slowly unravels and the stars see me shining
as if the sky is carefully untying its ribbons and bows
to stand naked and present beside me.
Everything has been turned inside out.
I open my eyes to speak.
I open my mouth to see.
I am neither worm nor angel:
just me,
stretching toward a higher place inside me and beginning to rise
on a breeze that feels like a hurricane holding its breath.
Anything could happen next.
All or nothing.
I am a fluttering brushstroke of seasons,
a water-colored apostrophe in search of the sentence,
or just one word,
to explain
how I got these stained-glass wings
and why I feel the pattern of your
fingerprints dusted all over them.
The one thing I do know is this:
Your touch is the only way I fly.
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Ken Woodley 
Perfectly poetically said.
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I just sent a pic. And if I didn’t say enough before, I liked your emerging butterfly poem! —Bob
Sent from my iPhone
>
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Ineffably beautiful. Thank you.
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Thank you so much, Sue, I deeply appreciate it.
Ken
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poetry often says things best, I liked it
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I’ve read it five times on successive days, and it grows with mystery and beauty and wonder each time. Thank you!
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You bless me so deeply, John, with your words, and lift me up.
Thank you,
Ken
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Sort of like the Creation window at the National cathedral! Sarah
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