The ledge is where it begins
and ends. She feels her slip rise,
her rusted wings quiver into use.
She knows the wind has a language
of its own too. Its trusted wet tongue fills
its mouth. She could never put it back together
in time. She recoiled, unblooming
like the moon daisy at dawn.
The moon remains unconcerned,
her faces stare as blank as snow.
She forgets her past, her future stunted too.
She's seen enough, she's sure.
Her black eyes frail from overuse.
Like the Earth, she is old before her time.
As a graffitied flower, she feels impure.
in her forever empty nest
the ghosts of unhatched eggs press their
little faces to the window, their shallow breaths
trying to frost the glass. She is the mother of dust,
draped in cobwebs thick as dirt.
She slips it back. She has known the outside
too well. At last, she tries to fly.