Currents of wind
Grasping blue
From the sky
Mixing colors—
Translucent white
Floating by
In puffs
Like smoke
But water
Cascading
Masquerading
As clouds, drifting down
To rest upon
The ocean’s top
Atop the undercurrents
Pulling dark and light
Together
In a haze
Under the phase
Of the moon
Where fullness
Steers the darkness
From the light.
At night the sense of
Flight
Alights
In dreams and hopes
A knotted rope
Hangs from the stars
And swings
As she sings
Like a bird
Whose song is sung
Carelessly
Without thought
She calls into the night
Filling it
From empty
To bright
And falls into
The space where
Downwind caresses
Upwind lifts
And buoyancy calls her
Higher still.
As hummingbirds swing
Creatures below
Sting
With venom held
Inside teeth
Red with the catching
Stories repeat
Through dust and mold
Dark with lies
Whispered inside
By unseen spies
Who feed on souls
Who fill the roles
Like actors
Paid to play
Unable to reach
The heart
And open—
Unfold
Like art.
The ones below
Whose wings were clipped
Set a scheme
Narrow as a
Tightrope
A balance beam
A trap
Set with bait
And they waited
Inside a box
Designed to promise
The only way
Into hope
From hopelessness—
To pull her down
To steal her crown
A crucible
Of fire
Inside folded walls
Where stories
Cease to be told.
She flapped her wings
Tilted her head
Toward the earth
Wondered
Then wandered
Through the expanse
Where freedom
Takes its chance
On little birds
Such as she
She caught a breeze
Saw her reflection
In the sea
Caught a glimpse
Of her worth
And floated down
To the cardboard flaps
Of the box
The dark ones
Moved
Like worms
The kind of worms
Eaten by birds.
It looked easy enough
Fold the second flap
Then the first
And follow the way
They had planned
To be kept
From the sky
From the breeze
From the warmth of the sun
The turn of the season
From the spring
That would
Enchant her
Like a lover
Enhance her
With colors
Vibrant
Breathing
Beating
With life
To romance her.
“No,” she thought
And then—
“No,” she said
The comfort of that dark
Is stark
The safety of that space
Is small
A quiet that settles
For an hour
Sweet at first
Then turning
She felt it
And knew it
And chose—
She rose
And she flew
And she flew.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Jill Szoo Wilson 