I Imagine Somehow, I, Too, Can Fly Poem by M. A Heathcote

When I see the green and red
Of the furnace flames aglow,
And a white dove is rising in the skies.
And those sleek, slender, starving Black-
And tan cats of the smithy go meandering by.
I imagine somehow, I, too, can fly.

I imagine I have already died and left.
The old steel foundry of my youth is behind.
But it's still not my turn or time to glide.
I didn't join the thugs or thieves or the reprobates.
I didn't become a stranger to myself.
But I nearly lost myself many times to drink instead.

Sure enough, life's fires intoxicated me.
Softened and hardened me,
And helped forge me into who I am today.
Questioning how I survived is simply
The poet's way of understanding.
Miracles are a learnt performance.
Needing practice almost every day.