Wings

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.

 

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