feathers smooth as gray

You're a waxwing,
berries off the rowan tree.

No, not a pair of wax and wings,
lit wick on your head,
prayers shot to the sky.

No, not a pair of waxen wings,
feathers molting quickly under the sun,
nose-diving to the sea.

Do you even have wings?
Flitted 'cross the country,
Carried one love on your back,
one in your talons,

dropped it in the mountains;
it rolled down to the valley,
the cold wind bitter
bit its tongue.

Frost adorned the mane
cascading from the head
like falls from a cliff (all wild).

It walked pavement
and wondered at cursing your name
before you storked it back.
      Cigars all 'round,
      a little monster's been born.
      Had to slap 'er 'til she wailed,
      but she's alive, I'll wager.

Revisiting every now and again
to alight upon the branches.
Lightly.
Never more, never less.

You're a waxwing,
berries off the rowan tree.

-Dana Winter