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The Gift
July 3, 2011
The wind blows
I wish I could float with it
And follow the leaving train
That holds my gift.
I loved, cherished,
admired the gift,
A gift that never left my hands,
Until it did.
Its black wings,
Flew and grew
A mind of its own.
I forgot that its wind
Blew against mine.
So with my wings
Painfully binding
I muster a smile
As the train
Swept my gift away,
Its black wings,
Like slipping sand
Through my bare hands.
© Sarah A., Escondido, CA
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