Discernment – Jill Szoo Wilson

Currents of wind
Grasping blue
From the sky

Mixing colors—
Translucent white
Floating by

In puffs
Like smoke
But water

Cascading
Masquerading
As clouds, drifting down
To rest upon
The ocean’s top

Atop the undercurrents
Pulling dark and light
Together

In a haze
Under the phase
Of the moon

Where fullness
Steers the darkness
From the light.

At night the sense of
Flight
Alights

In dreams and hopes
A knotted rope
Hangs from the stars

And swings
As she sings
Like a bird

Whose song is sung
Carelessly
Without thought

She calls into the night
Filling it
From empty
To bright

And falls into
The space where
Downwind caresses
Upwind lifts

And buoyancy calls her
Higher still.

As hummingbirds swing
Creatures below
Sting

With venom held
Inside teeth
Red with the catching

Stories repeat
Through dust and mold
Dark with lies

Whispered inside
By unseen spies
Who feed on souls

Who fill the roles
Like actors
Paid to play

Unable to reach
The heart
And open—

Unfold
Like art.

The ones below
Whose wings were clipped
Set a scheme

Narrow as a
Tightrope
A balance beam

A trap
Set with bait
And they waited

Inside a box
Designed to promise
The only way

Into hope
From hopelessness—
To pull her down

To steal her crown

A crucible
Of fire
Inside folded walls

Where stories
Cease to be told.

She flapped her wings
Tilted her head
Toward the earth

Wondered
Then wandered
Through the expanse

Where freedom
Takes its chance
On little birds

Such as she

She caught a breeze
Saw her reflection
In the sea

Caught a glimpse
Of her worth

And floated down
To the cardboard flaps
Of the box

The dark ones
Moved
Like worms

The kind of worms
Eaten by birds.

It looked easy enough

Fold the second flap
Then the first
And follow the way

They had planned

To be kept
From the sky
From the breeze

From the warmth of the sun
The turn of the season

From the spring
That would
Enchant her

Like a lover
Enhance her

With colors
Vibrant
Breathing
Beating

With life
To romance her.

“No,” she thought

And then—

“No,” she said

The comfort of that dark
Is stark

The safety of that space
Is small

A quiet that settles
For an hour

Sweet at first
Then turning

She felt it
And knew it

And chose—

She rose

And she flew
And she flew.

Silence is not the same as peace.
Quiet is different than calm.

Even the lake that mirrors
our sun collapsing
into night’s slow unmaking
teems with life—
muscle and current
moving beneath its silvered skin.

Silence is not the same as peace.

Peace is not an exhale of agreement.
It does not depend
on our foreheads touching
or my lungs
drawing in your breath
as if oxygen were opinion.

Peace does not ask
the mouth to soften
while the heart stays braced.

Peace is not an exhale of agreement.

Contentment is not stagnation.
It is wind finding corridors in air,
invisible highways
where birds trade
the panic of wings
for the steadiness of lift.

Contentment is not stagnation.

A voice once warned,
“Silence
like a cancer grows.”

But silence is a vessel.
Clay.
Hollow.

It holds what we pour into it.

Speaking is not the same as expressing.
Words rise like smoke
from cigarettes of perception,
stinging the eyes,
thickening the air,
blurring the space
between meaning
and what was meant.

Speaking is not the same as expressing.

Volume does not mold understanding.
Voices rise.
The need to be right
outpaces the need to listen.

The echo fills the room
until we cannot hear
each other breathe.

Volume does not mold understanding.

Distorting the self does not create unity.
Your red and my blue
collide into purple—
first a storm in water,
then something dense,
new,
pressing outward.

Distorting the self does not create unity.

To understand the thing itself—
whatever thing it be—

we must remain vessels.

Clay—
not hardened
by fear,
not sealed
by pride.

Open enough
to hold what is spoken
and what trembles beneath it.

Tag: Discernment

Poem: And She Flew

Poem: The Thing Itself