For Piro's wonderful Small Feathers sketch.

Fledgling's Wings

At times, when I am sitting
Secure among my friends,
My secret thoughts go flitting
Like vagrant puffs of wind,
Up mountains fiercely glowing,
Down rivers softly flowing,
Across the crested oceans,
To where I've never been.

And moods steal on me sweetly,
For which I have no names,
While sometimes sorrows, deeply
Planted in my breast, inflame
An apprehensive yearning
For the snows of winter's turning,
And a wish that I were learning
How to craft for them a frame.

Her protective posture touches
Something in me that was cold,
As to her breast she clutches
The expressions of her soul;
The storms of youth beset her
With the wild winds she must weather,
But on her back the feathers
Of new wings begin to grow.


In this untidy sheaf
Are sketches I don't show,
They swirl about my knees
Like drifts of dirty snow,
If I lent you them awhile,
Would you shake your head, or smile?
Could you understand my file
Of sorrows, joys, and hopes?

Would you become my sensei,
And teach me your design,
And how you put, so gently,
Such sadness in each line?
If you would give me lessons,
I might learn to give expression
To the fugitive impressions
That swell this heart of mine.

I keep my patience steady,
But tears have blurred my sight;
Her wings are almost ready
To take their maiden flight.
And though I love her fondly,
Too soon she'll grow beyond me,
But I will watch right proudly,
Her rising star shine bright.

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