When I was small we had
faerie chimes
that filtered sadness through my window.
If my fingers,
then small and unskilled,
could catch the specks of dust
that drifted around my
blossoms,
then maybe I could make that sound.
When I walked down hallways,
my sisters would giggle.
In my home among homes,
sitting beneath nimbus and cumulus,
I could hear them chortle at
my mismatched body,
a sylph without a
breeze.
I am grown,
and scents follow me,
ravens peck at my window.
But I know the outside
cannot see the wings that calm
my skirting breath,
they cannot hear the chiming
of my sad, sad soul.