Against the perceived odds,
and in the face of convention,
I fly – bright winged and brilliant.
My robe is dust on the ground,
consumed by soil.
I will not spoil for spreading wide,
everything inside
is safe.
No, it is only my heart which,
no longer denied, risks wounds,
but those wounds are salved
by the meritorious friends
who reach toward my feet
as I ascend.
With time they too will
shed their robes -
all of us, as happy as children,
in brilliant blue-winged rows
will make a streak across the sky -
a startling image to the pedestrian’s eye.
Advertisement
