Wax and Feathers

I appear before you of my own choice. Can sense come from such a statement? The simple words dress this page. I am not alone.

I encounter every one of you, my teachers, in order to learn. I cannot say I teach. I experience social bonds because of you. Easy.

We open up to receive. Give. Same sum.

When young, I sought the words of older people, dissatisfied with the majority of those with whom I spent my days. Gurus, you hear echoed from the vale.

From one, the gift of Icarus. The image of Earth from eagle's wings. The Realization. One of many to come.

We can reach heights without power of our own. Rising thermals lead the way. Build layers of balsa, sanded into dihedral castles, untethered and tossed. Away.

Another lesson, "A Gift of Wings." I mow their lawns. They give me books in return, worth more than money, weighs less than forgotten dates.

You made me, no longer fact but faded story. Simple words. When Realization arrives, we part, no longer we but one, choices made before we were born. The Truth Reformed.