My wings of glory

once alabaster pure

were painted sooty.

Burnt,

tattered

by frailty’s fancy.

Bound behind me

until now, filthy

feathers

have started to

unfurl.

Weak and ineffectual

still

I feel a surge

of flight’s vibration.

Soul songs

barely detectable

pulsate with conviction

as the time to soar

draws near.

MLH  1/30/09