I flew once, with wings of paper, fragile, thin,
breathtaking, painted every color of my dreams.
Palate only of a child’s imagination. Whirling
in the driveway to Aretha, spinning round spiral
grooves etched into my vinyl mind, I flapped
my wings like a frenzied hummingbird , until
my sparkly Jelly sandals lifted up, rising off
the cement. Airborne, winging across a graying
sky, lost in pirouette, I never realized I had entered
a shadowy, wooded maze. Abruptly, a stray branch
tore my right wing. Startled, defiled, heart missing
a beat, I toppling to hard earth. Eying the thick
partition of old maples and pines, enclosure of bark
and leaves, there was no way out. The driveway
seemed universes away. So I hugged my scraped,
stinging knees, rocked, and prayed for mended wings.
But… paper wings cannot un-tear.
Written by: Danielle Hark, daniellehark.com