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FLIGHT ANIMAL
You flitter on the delicate line,
where the lake and sky meet.
Your wings become water filled,
your body, the shape of a cross
my mother wears around her neck,
heavy, carved stone.
My hands stretch,
afraid of even the smallest death
to pull, lift, and place you on a rock.
Your wet wings stick to the hot stone,
anchoring you. Better to
sink into water,
you are the feather, the slight breath of air,
the memory hanging in forgotten space,
my passageway into this world,
swaying in and out of currents,
in and out of in between.
