Although the window is open
You, my fledgeling, have not flown.
This shocks me. You are a bird
After all, you can fly anywhere
But still you can't fly.
Oh, I see.
You are too young to have grown wings.
So I conclude with my dull logic
That angels are not born with wings
Despite the protestations of Raphael's ghost.
I search your fragile body for signs
Either of feathers coming or
The tell-tale stumps of wings,
But there is only naked smoothness.
To help you fly, I hold your delicate waist
Whirling you like some mad toy
About my head
While you flap desperately
Waiting for feathers and levity
To take their toll.
Finally shamed by failure
We sprawl exhausted back on the bed
And console ourselves as we know how.
The more I think of it, however,
The less I like the idea of feathers.