The sky behind the bare winter branches, blue and white, nearly reflective. I was almost an angel,
spread wide in the snow,
if only I had known about my wings.

If you were to ask my father,
he'd tell you I'd always been
a happy kid.

If you asked my mom,
she'd tell you something
different, but happy for the
most part.

You can't ask me such questions.
I hardly give thought to it now.

I was under the canopy for
what seemed like an eternity.
To a child, time is nothing, so
that's saying something.
It was cold, but that's what I'd needed, since warmth gives way to lies. I was looking for something true, and I didn't know where else
to search but the sky.
Were I to look anywhere else,
I'd just be retracing steps.

I was listening to a tape,
Iron Butterfly, wondering where
the name came from.
I fell asleep before turning
the tape over, and when I woke up,
I woke up to the sound of
my father calling my name and
an engine revving somewhere,
my brother driving 'round
looking for me.

When they found me lying there,
they thought I was hurt.
When I told them I wasn't they
asked what I'd been doing and I said
looking for some truth.
I was paddled and sent to my room
for the rest of the evening.

I stopped searching after that.
It always hurts to know for certain.