There are poems you write and poems that write you. This one is the latter for me.
Sage Song
I touch the faded marrow
and it crumbles in the peace
and I am covered with the dust of all
that ages in my ease.
The spacing of these bones
expels the prisoner from the cage
and I escape into broad daylight
that mistakes me for a sage.
Beholden to a cause
that bears the banner of a rush
a single pace outpaces me
the stolid, whistling thrush.
Behold the man upon a lark
that rises with the motes
and sings the song of sages
born again, a soaring note.