snowflakes burn on the cheeks
filtering the clad of trees
with grey nostalgia underneath,

Mother said, "let's make
a scarf with those wings"
the commodity out of necessity

for the weather only permits
threads of white, to rest
as supine angel ghosts

remain like chalk pictures
of suns and dreams yet to be
on the street which colors fade

for she walks, with
a spool of feathers on her neck
wondering why,

she couldn't fly like everybody else.