She lies like an open hand
Fingers a spread for the catch,
A feather bowl to cushion the soul
As it falls, but it never comes.
Her burnt red spirit, instead,
Briefly stunned, soon comes to
And wings away toward the home
It has known, breathless, without weight.
Beside the window glass her
Figure rests draping a small limb.
Down, still, in a scoop of orange
And gray. He doesn’t turn away,
But wonders whether
She knew, just before but not in time,
The truth about the reflection:
Was she flying toward the most beautiful creature she had ever seen?
That was you.
(photo by Kyle Tschepikow)