Trapped between screen and dust the rust of years
of tenants too broke eventually
to pay the rent;
Like a heat-maddened fly I am caught in the space
between screen, window, and the far away blue sky.
Now I am trying to escape and trying to fly; insect-small;
I could compare myself to being wrapped in a web,
all sticky and gummy and trapping me as I struggle
but there is no spider and I am not a Vincent Price
squeaking “Help me, help me” as I lie helpless and
ready to die; no, not I.
I am waiting for the window to open and so take flight;
I am waiting for the space I can squeeze my still-silver
wings through and stretch an up until I am but a distant
speck; far away and whirring and climbing until
I can no longer be seen with the naked eye.
That ballet that all trapped things learn as they
wait for that window to open; and the notes that go
to the song, so I watch as the others bang against
that false light; turning their wings into ribbons that will
hang uselessly at their sides when they try to take flight.
I won’t be brought to ground or to plummet down;
not I. I wait for that window to open,
I wait for my chance to fly.
©Willow Rose 2011