JASMIN LAY

Without Wings

My grey eyes flutter to the sprawling sky, stretching far further than the eye can see; to the great boughs of an elderly tree; the opal moon, a clouded misty eye, a jewel the magpie could never forget, hanging from the stars like a crystal ball, bathing everything in a moonlight shawl. It says goodbye in the pink streaked sunset.

Plentiful stars shine with shimmering light. Among them, I see angry, red Mars. Up to this pure planet many would spring, to look back at the cobalt Earth with delight. They might count every vivid, glowing star, but there’s a reason we weren’t born with wings.