At about the height of the tree tops,
my flying coach chuckled at me when
I told her I’d always believed I’d need
actual wings to fly. “Solar plexus,
Solar plexus.” She whispered.
She was too young
when a man took her innocence.
When she got it back,
it was broken.
Wind blown curtain,
paint brush, budding forsythia,
whistling tea kettle.
What did I come in here for?