The winds fall into the same rhythm as the eye of a hurricane:

For a moment, there is only stillness and the peace of knowing you’re safe.

Standing under this barely-hatched tree, my wingspan wide,

I close my eyes, feel the dew-coat hung by the door, its sleeves brushing my face,

And my teeth are colored gold by early morning harplight.

The leaves dutifully billow forth, parachuting to the ground, preparing themselves for

Burial, a young child’s first escape into the crunch of nothing forever.

Right now I stand, my feathers grasping for the wind’s kite tail, and in another second

I will depart.

But that’s what makes this so lovely, my dear.

It can’t be forever; the taste of chocolate sours when held to the tongue for too long.

Soon I will stumble into this moment again, not with the same tree, nor the same

After-rain peppering my forehead. But the crawl towards once more receiving the

Fairy ghost’s blessing is enough to send me forward, searching again for

Her sacred vow: the promise to feel more alive than any person should.

Her symphony is the brass’ amber blare, the lyrical lines reminding,

All pretty things matter because they’re gone.