You’re some kind of closet,
aren’t you?  Full of
things I saw myself in,
once.

I loved this, wore that
for fashion’s sake,
found that comfortable,
never really liked that
but wore it for another.

In the door,
the sound of age.
On the floor,
dust and silly notions.
On the walls, old newsprint, pictures
and chipped paint.
A rack groaning
with outlived garments…

nothing fits, nothing
worth saving, but if I give it away
who will I see when I look into you?

It matters to some
that they fly.

it matters not at all
to me anymore.

I can still raise a wind below me
and rise now and then…
but long flights
are for others.

I watch them from the ground.
I think of my own migrations,
am glad of the memories…

glad to be on the hard earth
thinking of rest.  It’s time
to let my wings fall to my sides.
It’s time.