Iron Wing

---

I was six when you crashed through a window 

and landed with a thud 

in a beam of sunlight at the foot  

of grandma’s sewing machine, 

cast iron against broken wing. 

I stitched you a canary cotton cast 

& nursed you with safflower seeds 

on a needle pad makeshift mattress. 

Your tiny eyelids barely stirred, 

trembling breast a thread 

that tethered you to this world. 

Grandma caressed my hair, spoke of rest 

to brace me for your destiny. Yet, each day 

you flittered in your needlework nest, 

flapped your wings, 

unbreakable. 

You took off on a crisp morning, 

whooshing over dewdrops dangling 

from foxgloves. You remain 

a strand of silk in my web of life 

that anchors me with resolve 

to let nothing clip my wings.