Wings beat like arrhythmia
a patient on the table with bluffing odds
Edges shredded like whips
Like a bad hair day, bangs gone awry
A scalloped bowl-cut
done with bargain-bin crafting scissors
The wind is howling
a paper tiger carved from oak
shaking the ice from branches
and power lines
and making the lights flicker
The cocoon calls
Warm and safe
and familiar
The plane was almost halfway there
when we decided to turn around
for a runway that we knew
It’s where we learned to fly
It’s where we practiced
and fell
into the stones
and the mailbox
and the corner of the picnic table
The scar is there
if you know where to look
The fire is warm
It burns away
the splinters
We know how best to travel now
We know the paths to avoid
The fields of thorns and spiders
The webs that stick to wings
The flowers hiding traps
beneath their nectar
deadly in their beauty
Soft curls of silk
that twist into hooks
We close our eyes
for a day and a night
to set out again in morning
with sadness
with purpose
with resolve
for the journey home
