Broken, torn, tattered wings....
I wonder if they feel phantom pains,
like limbs that have become paralyzed,
those impulses and spasms and aches
that seize us in our sleep,
that awaken us with an embrace that burns and screams,
"Don't forget me. I am still here."
I wonder if they guard deep in hollow spaces of their cells
the memories of flight.
the freedom they once knew as they stretched and raised and lowered
these wings, propelling a body through the air,
riding the wind currents of dreams and desire.
Of Angels and Insects: Memories of Flight
Until next time...
Anne