Flight

The lonely dance of feathers scattering
through winter’s breeze – shivering, withering -
like petals of a flower long decayed
(you were, after all, made in flesh to fade).

Though you were also made so light to fly
with sights so close to heaven in your eyes,
even though they never brought you pleasure
(it was, really, your songs that you treasured).

Or rather, the memories stitched to songs -
feelings of things lost and found that you longed
to accompany your voice, thread by thread
(like the whispering strings a harpist treads).