Long ago, as many teens do, I wrote poetry now and then. And then I learned to hate my poetry, and I stopped. I wonder if I could just be kind to myself and enjoy trying?
Will I Feel the Wind
I can’t feel my wings.
Have I held them stiff so long they’re numb?
I used to fly in dreams,
gravity and air my dance partners.
But wings bring risk,
greatness more frightening than inspiring.
Feeling more danger than delight,
The familiar posture stuck:
Tucked tight, cramped, hidden.
I didn’t notice when I could ease up.
This tension grew comfortable.
I can’t just stretch them wide yet.
Muscles weak, tingling, straining.
This tender burn of fragile self-love.
Will I feel the wind?
Will it grace me with lift?
Will it hold me like a friend?