Wings What if we had wings. What if we flew above our houses. What if we flew above the fields. What if the sound of our wings pulsed and beat gently in rhythm with the blue ether of the sky, the shared air above the lakes, white with a sheen of snow still. What if we flew until our wings wearied, the muscles of our human arms tired with the work of flying and we floated down softly to land among our houses, our wings worn and resting on the surface of the earth, looking up at our houses, looking up at each other.
Liane Tyrrel is a poet and painter. For the past few years she has been writing poems about a haunted childhood home, memory and disappearance, animals both living and dead, and the woods and fields in New Hampshire where she lives. https://www.lianetyrrel.com/
Amethyst Review 