Even the dust motes have wings
today, and the trees
are taking flight.
Is there anything that cannot
sprout wings, unfold them
in a forest of fluttering
leaves? Because living is short
and still so long, the last
twenty days were spent
dying in fits and starts,
wings shedding, shuddering
abdomens and abandoned shells.
Consider the energy
expended to beat these wings
through air, to move air
or a body at all.
Multiply it by millions
if a number might lift you too—
in the space between wings
in a world that gives birth
to all of its angels at once.
