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No dream of wings for me.
Flights are few,
though occasionally those of fancy
nudge me into delight.
Or a wisp of whimsy whisks my over-serious mind
into could-be, what-if,
let-it-happen, and wow!-where-did-this-come-from?
Wings form from shoulder blades,
from arms extended, offering,
gathering, connecting.
Wings, having budded,
take over mind and heart,
and all becomes possible.
If I had the wings of an angel. . .
Clothes make the man;
do wings make the angel?
Come fly with me.
We'll come in on a wing and a prayer.
Copyright 2014 Ann Tudor
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