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.
Fledgling
Category: poetry
a still bright thing
I am a still
bright thing.
A teacup
with a crack.
Yesterday’s newspaper,
folded, neat.
A full-blown rose
losing petals
but still crimson
at the heart.