Surprising, really
how fast she finds her wings,
cobbles broken things
back together
and sets her
self (less shattered) back to sun.
She molds a smile from embered
ash and tears,
mosaics splintered
years into a dragon-armored kite
and calls herself wild, child of moon
and other borrowed light.
::
In April, we poem.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 