Previously Published in The Written Voice



I want a flight in the woods with the trees hugging the oxygen. I

want a flight on the wings of something, not me. Floating,

determining itself to nowhere. Nowhere, is where I’d planned to be.


And on those wings I can see the yellow. The bright, bright yellow

of the colors on the wings not colored with colors but with nature

instead. And the spots of the air and the wind and the rain, and

then my heels on its head.


A butterfly could take me there, where, if I were smaller. A

butterfly could die from the weight of me. My weight, the weight of

the poet on the verge of something bigger, the ideas of a woman

destined to wait for reasons she’ll never understand. The primal

fear of the primal urge of the primal feelings that grip her fear in

soft hands placing lightening bugs in jelly jars. The feeling that

something is coming, coming closer, coming near.


Something is moving something is building something is emptying

into me while I fail to fly like I had always planned. I want a flight

in the woods on the wings of something, not me. I want to stick my

nails into my ears and pick out harmonies like ants.


Not alone, no not alone this time, the flight is a double mission and

there are two wheels to be steered, two heels to be placed, two

minds to bind to surge, to lift. If I had wings, I would take you on

them. If I had jelly jars, I would empty them.


I would let the soft green lights bounce free over the rim, past

mason jars and aluminum coffee cans and the grasping, dirty

hands of children to light up the bushes like christmas in spring.