Where Mothers Sing of the Deep Uknowing

In my dream his name is Joshua.
A wisp of smoke, balanced on precipice edge,
curls toes over flesh-biting rock
until he feels.
Emaciated arms stretch wide, like an eagle
trying new wings; they tickle the breeze with torn fingers.

His blood drips red as winter dawn,
raw flesh aches, cold and drawn,
into eternity spread over green and river below
where spring quivers beneath mountain snow
drifts into uncountable nights
and summons frozen fog to meet the weary.

Joshua leans forward.
A warm hand cups his neck, anchors and secures him,
dispels his need to soar.
Still, freedom trumps his fear of the dark,
of the long sleep stalking in the valley below,
where Wolf huddles in underbrush and Snake darts in dirt,
and Mothers sing of the deep unknowing:
Hungry blood boils for innocence,
a slow and vulnerable prey.

The price of service, his body;
the price of captivity,
          his soul.
Little valued the price of freedom,
the one he aches to pay alongside those
on the edge of forever
stands the choice: to soar, to twist,
suspended betwixt here and there, waiting
in the long dark hours for the light in despair
where none may come; he recalls all.

We drop as one, attached to what may come,
yet freedom fades without
release of memories less solid than straws.
Joshua withdraws. "No!
Remember," he says, "to let go."