Gray Wind, Wing

It’s a dangerous game she plays.
(And you never know
What might happen.)
Sipping dream nectar,
She sculpted a friend
From the cardinal’s swooping song.
And winding around
That milk-and-honey maze,
She found she preferred to be lost.

She took her time.
She turned the clock
To face the wall.
And she focused on
The minute:
A crumbled stone
Growing emerald moss,
The stain on his lips
Where so much water had passed,
The slight shifting of willow wands
Weeping over the river.

She was the wind,
And rising to a torrent,
She could make them all
Bend and sway
With a thought.
But she mostly preferred
To clutch her chains close,
And quietly croon
From the cage.

Well-kept secrets,
Spoken low –
Who could know
Her wings remain unclipped?
And she would tell you, too,
If you could bear it.
Rub the sleep from your eyes now,
My friend.
In the still, pre-dawn branches,
You might catch it,
Her call.

There is a way in,
And though she loves this –
The sure, steady untangling
Of the trap –
She would not ask you
To linger, unwilling.
But only to remember these things:
That the clock
Will tell lies –
That there is some treasure
Deep in the unseen –
And that when you grow tired
Of unpuzzling her paths,
Gladly she would lift you,
Like a feather in a falling breeze,
And set your feet back
On solid ground.



About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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