The Lurkers' Domain

Icarus, I

A breeze, fitful, swaying,
float of waxen wings on air,
higher than in dreams do I pivot and sway;

Icarus, I - a sun broad before me.
Icarus, I - tumultous ocean below.

Surf whispers, "Too close, too close,
too close to the sun ..." Have I flown?
This construct of feathers and hope;

Icarus, I - your smile broad before me.
Icarus, I - pulse at my fingertips.

Bright heat, waxing, running,
dripping from my fingertips, as feathers
fall in one-by-one cascades of white, and

Icarus, I - soar yet towards that bright star.
Icarus, I need no wings to fly.

(c) January 2001