The Eagle

The eagle soars,

the gleam of green
that informs
of his departure

and the wings
spread apart,

its body
to accommodate
both black and white.

I am reminded
of the structure
of ovoid trapdoors

that hold their
empty, stubborn gaze

in the eyes of
a 4-year old girl

who now
stares at me,
from beyond
a drifting cloud.

Her muslin dress
crinkles under
her feet
and dazzles my eyes –

that slow, sentient shift
in angelic light
split by prisms

and birthday parties past 30
sliding too easily
into depression.

What lies beyond
these troubadours
so whisper-soft;

yet stunningly voluble,

in that
lingering graze
of the fingertips
I sorely wished

belonged to mine?

© Zelda Reville

I like talking to unearthly muses who dance beyond my reach.


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