Poetry: Icarus

A figure falls through the sky

Melted wax cakes his back and biceps.

The hot oil glistens in the sun.

He knows there is no escape.

With his dying breath

he imagines not the cruel unforgiving ground,

but the splendor and majesty of the sky

the rush of soaring blindly through a cloud

or keeping pace alongside the beating wings of a songbird.

Must the harshness of the fall negate the beauty of the flight?

When we hear the name Icarus we imagine a falling figure

full of fear, dread, and regret.

Why?

Why does the idea of loving something enough to risk everything cause such fear?

Why not excitement?

We chastise Icarus for being greedy and foolish

instead of honoring and respecting his bravery

and devotion.

I long to be consumed by something enough for

all else to fall away.

I long for the sky to hold me in her soft embrace

and entertain my soul such that

I fully forget myself.

I suppose I envy Icarus

not because he fell

but because he flew.