Icara
by Alexandra York

 

 

He was my brother
The story’s eternally told
A brother in spirit. Young. Proud
And exceedingly bold.
“Escape may be foiled on water and land
Yet the space of the sky is free—
Keep under the clouds!
And hold to the middle course over the sea.”
But soaring high, the power, the glow
The ineffable joy—floating on wings!—overtook
The boy. He flew to the sun
All golden and bright
Ignoring the warning, consumed by
Delight in his flight

His eyes were agleam when he died
On sun-melted wings he fell without fear
In Poseidon’s embrace
He died with pride
For he tried—
How he tried—
Flying high!

On this fateful theme
The muses sing
  I am another
My wings are eternally cold
Another blithe spirit. Young. Proud
With ringlets of gold.
No labyrinth bars me, no prison, no ban
Yet, though graced, I’m determined to flee—
Leap upward! Go now!
I dare to defy the “impossible dream.”
The goal is nigh, red flowers below
Seem tiny as toys. The welkin rings as I look
To my joy! I enter the sun
Behold it. Its light
Transforming my vision, I’m thrilled by
The height of insight

The sun is our dream idealized
My own shining face I see in its mirror
A dream is the place
Where the Self resides
It is I—
It is I
Aspiring inside.

To rise up to our dreams
We need no wings

Sculpture "Icara" by Michael Wilkinson
(Note: Image appears on the cover of Alexandra York's novel
CROSSPOINTS to represent "Victory")

Copyright © Alexandra York, all rights reserved