She is…

a girl who pulls long quilled feathers

out of her wing,

listens to her pulse 

as it quickens

like rain drops

on an old barn roof.

She nudges…

through long lost pages 

of fenced in things,

pokes Past with the tip of her quill

and watches for signs of truth.

She listens…

for the crackle crack pulling

of yellowing photos-

for tales  of nestling poems 

tapping on her window pain,

She tucks…

her quills into her wing, 

opens her window and soars

with sunlit word-kissed birds 

She is a girl who flys…

…with  poetry….


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