A Collection, Alive and Flying

I have long collected trinkets and little pieces of beauty
Objects of tiny art and everyday artifacts, to set my mind apart from the ordinary
(Though the mundane is no bad thing)

My soul seems to sing in holding some thing held by many human hands before me
As if I am a part of something greater than me
A river winding its way, from mountains to the sea

When I travel to some new place
I might find a bit of bric-a-brac
A ceramic bird
A lacquered box
A rock
A painted word

They seem, altogether on the shelf,
To rise from the dust
Taking wings, these created things
Like offerings
Just as I hope to be
Some distant song to sing, until the notes coalesce, and,
All together, the notes fit best as a chorus, in many voices

From all corners of the globe, I see them rising
Their voices prying secrets from the deep, forgotten earth,
In mirth

I see them rising, at last, into the sky
Where creativity inside us finds all things flying, on wings
Like birds migrating from cold to the very heat of things
Longing for that country just beyond the ridgeline
And, finding the horizon no longer denies longing,
They fly in a perfect “V”, and find
The sky, finally, lets them loose
And sets us, all as one, free