I made myself take wing,
My hollow bones too light to fall
Without the weight of stone.
I made my heart a stone,
A pebble to be tossed. No wing,
No chute to slow my fall.
I made a choice to fall,
To break upon your bed of stone:
A bird–a broken wing.
If you had stooped to catch me on the wing–if you had checked my fall–I might have flown for you. But love, I am not made of stone.
One of the things I love about yeah write is that it gives me room to push my own boundaries. A couple of us have been on a poetry kick lately, which is fun and terrifying at the same time. This week, Rowan G. threw down the gauntlet and challenged a few of the editors to try their hands at writing a tritina. She gave me the words “wing, fall, stone.” I gave her “stone, wine, grace.” A couple others may be playing along, and I’ll list them here if/when they post.