She was elegant and graceful.
Light as a feather
drifting upon an empty winters day.
Baby spiders crawled up her arms
she squashed them to crusty blood
upon her featherlight biceps.

They told her once that she was
the ugly duckling to the flawless
reflection of white.
How can all colors compare to the
purest?

She had long grey feathers.
They protruded from her back.
White never goes grey.

To the youthful feathers
on each unhappy bird.

A flash of gold
blisters my skin,
causing me to retreat
to the shade of the weeping willow.

Bead after bead of salt
forms a darkened necklace
on my grey collar,
my noose of summer.

The once green, now yellow,
slowly dying scenery
reinforces my instinct
to flee inside these wooden boxes.

My shoulders are kissed
with buckets of rays—
they pour down from above
the heads of the trees.

I submerge my wings
up to the first hinge,
the chill of the pond
barely softens the burn.

I grimace as the light reflects,
obscuring my vision.
There’s someone out there
who knows how to change things.

As I shake my feathers dry
and prepare to flee back home,
I glance to the side,
seeing my distorted reflection in the ripples.

Mother Nature is finally happy
with the way we are reacting.

The angel was in my room the other night.
I found him weeping by the brook.
I asked him why.
He didn't answer me.
But he stopped crying.
And disappeared.

I went to the arcade.
There was a new highscore.
And the angel was trying to beat it.
I stood there and watched him.
He noticed me.
Then he bought me an ice cream by the shop.

And flew away when I smiled at him.

I thought there was red in his cheeks.

There were three fluffy feathers left on the ground.

My best friend used to say three of some things meant something.

He told me what they said before he moved away.

I love you.

The angel was in my room the other night.
That morning I got a letter.
From my best friend's mother.
It said something that made me go into the brook.
And to the arcade him and I always used to play in.
The letter said my best friend had died.

I didn't think so.

The angel was on my chair by the window.

His glow contemplated the lamp I always had on.

I put the feathers back into his hand.

He smiled at my touch.

I love you.

We're two feathers from the same bird,
tail and wing.
You can't tell when we're floating together
Which fell first, and which followed
Or even
What happened to the bird.
All we know is that some young thing will grip us in his tiny hands,
Pick us up from the ***** ground
And hold us together in-between two pudgy fingers
Imagining he can fly because of us.