The Brush of Wings
Nov 1 · 1 min read
I dreamed I was flying
each breath released a gentle sigh
as gossamer wings lift
in surrender to the summer breeze.
I blinked and held a brush,
a long, black wand,
the tip as soft as eyelashes.
My arm breathes color
as an image drifts into the space.
A shape rises to the surface
through the fog and mist.
You appear in sacred form
and say
fly with me.