Wings
And once again there is no fear,
when you’ve climbed out of the valley,
past the clouds
and all you’ve left behind
a half-remembered dream.
High upon the mountain,
where the wind is cold
but whispers of things that pass
and things that cannot change,
there is no fear.
The wings you made and carried to the top
are no burden anymore;
like Icarus ascending
or any witless bird -
now there’s only hope and flight.