The Wings of a Dove


Each filament a shaft of light,

An interlocking burst of sun,

A fugue which twists and weaves through space,

A mass of radiated song.


The barbs are pointed beams of force,

Are concentrated shards of time.

The wing tips touch and spark with stars.

The secondaries flux and flow.


A planet’s mass should drag it down,

Should crush it to its heartless core:

Impossible the flick of flight,

Incredible the ruffled shake.


Beneath its roost the careworn miss

This miracle released from weight.


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