Wings

Would life be so easy,

If I were a bird,

Soaring over lands,

And seas far from heard?

Could weight fall away,

Like dusk from the sky,

And time be forgotten,

Without need to ask why?

For no doors would confine me,

No roads could decide,

What weight I need carry,

Or face I need hide.

Should the wind offer rhythm,

And beauty, and grace,

I would be thankful for it,

And befit every space.

I would sketch my name boldly,

On the back of the breeze,

Write soft, fleeting poems,

In the language of trees.

And the mountains would greet me,

With arms made of air,

Every valley I passed,

Would steal thoughts of despair.

I would borrow the sunrise,

And wear gold on my wings,

Trade all of my worry,

For simpler things.

But storms would still find me,

Dull my beak in the rain,

And hunger would follow,

Like an echo of pain.

For even in freedom,

The wild has cost,

A sky without borders,

Is a sky to be lost.

And flight is a question,

As much as escape,

A freedom that shifts,

Into some other shape.

So maybe it’s not,

The wings that I need,

But a lightness of heart,

And less want to be freed.