Wings

My hands have turned to ash,
grey and gnarled like twigs
branches twisting in the wind
to tear and snap at passing.

I have lined my nest with parchments
It shifts in the breeze with noise,
the gentle tap of glass once sand
and filled with inky secrets.

There are feathers in my hair
but not a one poised for flight,
beating against my long neck
in a bid for currents of freedom.

My downy past is inflated,
gorged on winter winds,
a sussurus in my aching head
to swipe and catch at thoughts.

Tumbling over stone and leaf
I make for my paper haven,
wooden hands clasping hard
over mossy heart.

A trill for the evening air,
uttered weakly under the stars
lifts me safely from sacrifice
and nestles into my pitted, useless wings.