young gull


His love was a fledgling –

awkward in its moulting,

a pupation of sorts.

His grasp of her essence

floundered in the reeds

where others moved sure;

progress screeched

and twittered, juvenile

in proportion and quality.

But true love has a way

of making a man;

where finesse was lacking,

perseverance found flight –

I still see them soaring, now and then,

where time and age cannot clip their wings.


6 comments on “Wings

  1. adaisygarden says:

    I like both the words and the photo 🙂

  2. Debbie says:

    Oh my goodness, this was beautiful, Melody! Thank you for sharing it with us!!

  3. mmladyg says:

    How beautifully you’ve captured the essence–awkward–of what it means to make that transition. Precision writing. Thanks for continuing to share consistently exquisite poetry.

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