Before We were Bistered ( at the request of mark_yelland-brown )

Fling off bistered slings
wrapped upon God. Hidden
in enshrined shine of dandelion
is a symmetry of butter-yellow plumage
worn upon joy's bird-face,
labile to a breeze,

the winging of a child...

Once trees were haloed
with downy pompadours,
and baby-prayers lifted off
to graceful ears. Fears coasted
defeatedly against the fingertips
of mothers, and fathers
we did not need to hunt,
and peck for belief in.

Swing wide...

our pinioned gates of Jesus,
like before the Inquistion
when they grounded him,
positioning themselves as the iron
of his backbone, and a man's lap
was the the safest place to imagine.

It hurts to try...

to rouse Easter days,
those days when it was okay to ask
for green, and new, so much.
But remembering
the mourning is easy;
that death of newborn bunnies
hopping through young iris'

You may...

call them lies if you wish.
I have named them faith,
soft, and strong as eggs
before our cracked, and scrambling edges
were scorched by hot greasy doubt.

There is a decent...

pressing down upon innocent ascension.
Crowing oppression swallows
holiday expressions to wail
for walls to crash,
a Humpty Dumpty swivel
never to be put together again.

Is elevation possible...

strength to rise
just to fall into featherbeds;
those casual touches of hope
that silence is nothing more
than the soaring sound of believing
we really do know how to fly.