Stroke of wings

When I found her, she was in a cage
smaller even than the one she had accustomed herself to.
Lead weights entrapped her fragile ankles and chicken wire bound her broken wings—
but still, somehow, she had fluttered to the window
where she perched, looking out with wide, enraptured eyes.

Years before, the sun had burned away all but the voices in her head; now
the moon had stolen her voice.

She would never sing again.


She didn't know me anymore
but the lovely summer day outside enchanted her.

An entire solar system couldn't take that from her.


Perhaps, in her own mind, she flew.