I imagine that your wings itch,
like the fever in
my daughter’s bones.
First, to stay.
Then, to go.
A whiplash oscillation
searching
for its tipping point–
the flurried breath
as flight becomes
homecoming.
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Fledgling
Your poems are so lovely, Lisa. I am sitting in an international terminal, having left family and waiting for my flight “home”; what a nice moment to read your poem. Longing to stay and itching to go….
Thanks so much, Jeri. Safe travels!
I’ve missed you, Lisa. This is utterly bewitching.
Thank you so much 🙂