You were born with wings.
You are not meant for crawling, so don’t.
You have wings.
Learn to use them and fly.

—Rumi

First, we have to land in these bodies.
We think we landed ages ago, at birth,

but really, we often fight this incarnation thing,
as humans seem to do. We want to be here,

but we don’t. We don’t want to die, but we do.
Is a puzzlement, as the Rodgers and Hammerstein

song goes. So to survive we must find ways to
land healthily, kindly, thoughtfully in the frame

we were given. We must give up disparaging ideas
about this garage for our souls—yours is fine.

So’s mine. Better than fine, this fuselage that
supports our parts and carries us through life.

We must learn to speak nicely to it, treat it
and our other parts kindly, especially ones that

yammer at us, frustrate us, pain us. So yes,
let’s get quiet and let the belly go soft, and

the breath, too, perhaps go outside on a day
like, say, today, when the world is ripe with

green and spring springing. Maybe put on
shoes, if we can, and walk in our corner

of the earth. And if not, to sit in sunshine,
if we can find it—and here’s a tip: We can

always find it, even on the rainiest, snowiest,
cloudiest of days. We close our eyes and find

ourselves high above the clouds, as we do
when we fly—in planes or with our own wings—

where there is always sun or clear dark,
where there the forever sky stretches beyond

this blue marble of a planet that is ours
for the duration, which is as long as we

are fortunate to live in these sturdy,
fragile, remarkable bodies, the very things

that make us humans so imperfectly perfect.

•••

With thanks to my wise woman friend / Amherst Writers
& Artists facilitator Holly Holt for the prompt.