Found in a notebook:
I have wings,
they are wooden and heavy,
difficult to fly a straight line,
impossible to land softly, accurately,
still, I fly.
Live with the immediacy of a small bird
in the impossible distance between stars,
all pregnant force and vestal patience.
Then sunlight turns the hillside green and goldenrod,
we curl like leaves in that autumn dawn,
take it as a sign of promise.