There's yet a part of her that sings
quick-silvered
trilling.
She remembers how it felt
to fly;
her wings once wrote the memoirs
of the wind.
She knows only
the latent breeze is lacking
to fan her folded silks
and lift her to the sky,
imponderable
and willing.
Her heart recalls the balanced swing
she once taught
to blades
of grass.
From within her now-still sails,
a breath ascends
in orison to the tranquil
boon of flight.
She sighs herself to sleep upon a bloom,
and frail chimera, her colors spread,
she floats again
above the petalled dance of winds
through softer
seasons that
have passed.
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