She thought it was
the stony hand of
gravity pressing her
all the day long
into the grit
of twilight, and
her breath
was heavily afraid.
Then the forest
faeries whispered
into her mind,
her mind shaped
its music,
her music lit her
heart,
her heart, for a
moment, held all the sky,
every animal
person, every plant.
She saw gravity’s
authority only works
when you believe
in it,
as does flight,
so she gained sky,
the ugly-duckling-days made fresh,
her own brilliance
filling her hourglass
with green magic
that was
always there.
J.
Pratt-Walter, © 2018
No comments:
Post a Comment