by Bruce Meyer

Teaching the joy of wind
in my face, the cold rush
of ice breathing in my hair,

he held me up at first,
my legs dangling like twigs,
ankles bending beneath me,

then raised me in his arms,
lifting me as I closed my eyes
on our moon-capped yard.

When he told me I had flown,
how my blades caught the ice,
slicing silver off the moon,

I knew what flying was –
the power to leave the world,
a means to wrap my arms

around a lonely star and hold on
even as it shot across the sky
and fell when he wasn’t there.

— from Juniper Volume 4, Issue 1