A wind has blown through all my dreams of late, yet always far away.
– Timothy Findley, “Pilgrim.”
If I stood and raised my wings,
would you notice their spangled black
feathers, the fused motions of my bones?
Or would I need to sing your name,
the way angels kiss
night’s mouth in perfect chords?
The trees’ resilient branches croon and sway,
and somewhere else bells intone,
but, my love, we have never left the ground.