Skyman's Daughter
by Marge Simon
Father seeds the skies with wings.
Trains them like homing pigeons,
one pair to a hutch.
He flies with the fledglings
to guide them home.
At dawn, a rush of air
above my head and they disappear
to return as the suns descend.
Sometimes a letter in a beak,
sometimes a bone.
After lessons, I'm allowed
to climb the embroidered hills
where the trees wear gold medallions,
whispering histories in the sing-sigh wind.
I shut my eyes and sit very still
until I hear them coming home.
Father promises to teach me how to fly,
and his wings are long and wide,
but mine are nubs that will not grow
beyond my reach.
I pretend I was stolen
from the town beyond the yellow river.
But I know it isn't so.
Children no longer have wings.
We put our faith in Father's birds,
for who else will be our messengers
when we lose the skies?
Marge
Ballif Simon freelances as a writer-poet-illustrator for genre and mainstream
publications such as From the Asylum, Chizine,