The edge of the music building rests
Quiet in the absence of several incongruent rehearsals.
Against the whisper of nesting birds
And the tap of my feet
I hear a ghost;
The frantic phantom echo of a metronome gone crazy at three hundred beats per minute.
It’s just the pool filter,
But it sounds like marching season.
So close that one can feel
Well,
Anything.

If I could spread my wings
And no longer stand a statue,
I would escape from Earth
To feel the sky rustle feathers.

If I could spread my wings,
I would fly to softening sun,
Remember fellow sculptures
Frozen to binding ground.

If I could spread my wings,
I would swirl into daylight,
Listen to the sighing breeze,
Soar away and never land.

The last bee hovers around a wilting sunflower
As the last leaf turns tawny on the oak.
Rays of honey spill through my window
As I sift through my closet wondering
What to take with me. I reach to the top shelf
And pick a dress. Kids size 4 reads the label
Smudged from too many hot cycles as my fingers
Glide over tattered ruffles at the neckline
And grass stains on the side from catching ladybugs
Under summer’s simpler sun. I press my dress
Against my body, flash to curtseying at a lawn party
Where I danced on my father’s shoes. I sigh,

We look at frightened ladybugs,
Fallen trees, and trampled flowers
And think, What a tragedy!
But the rhinoceros asks,
With a tear in his giant eye,
Is it so wrong for me to dance?

The boy lay in the grass, eyes half-closed, enjoying the warmth of the sun upon his body. A squirrel chittered. Footsteps sounded nearby, followed by a low exchange of voices, then passed on, fading into the distance. The world lapsed into silence.

I hate the way you always seem
So cheerful in the morning cold,
While I, a mortal born of flesh,
Can’t help but freeze bitterly.
Yet seeing you, I smile as well,
And echo your shining face.
I love the way warmth
Flows through your hand,
Like cocoa melting marshmallows,
Thawing mine with just one grasp;
How when grey lords loom high above,
You speak to me, a wind chime melody,
That carries those clouds elsewhere.
Once before none dared approach,
People ignored my ashen husk,
Walking down emptying streets.
Before meeting you, I will admit,

In the last pew of the church,
Jim fidgeted between parents.
Lifting himself on small hands,
He struggled to behold what lay
Over the sea of combed toupees
And marveled at winking glitter
Twinkling on the blushing bride.
The organ trumpeted its song
Upward to trembling beams.
When the procession stopped,
A dull voice sighed and prayed
As the audience rustled in pews.
Jim tugged at his tight collar,
Noted red spreading on cheeks
From heat of six hundred people.
Women with bulky hats fanned,
Admired the pair, their passion,
Recollected more youthful days.

Warm and gooey from the oven
He knows he started out innocent,
Squeezed with love from a scoop.
His skin smoothed and patted
Before he birthed beneath a cozy 350°,
Surrounded by his fellow doughboys.

He never knew his lopsided curves
And lumpy chocolate chips
Meant a lifetime of watching
The spaces around him grow,
The buttery circles that taught him
He was something different.

As crumbs tumbled from him,
He knew his time was coming.
A buttery disposition can’t last
Forever, he thinks. Too soon,
Moisture will creep into soft cusps

Jason! Look at my song!
My younger brother
Waves a scribbled sheet.
I frown, gnash my teeth,
And clench my fists.
You drew on my paper!
His smile wavers. I grab
Vincent’s masterpiece, tear
It into tiny pieces. Scraps
Flutter to the ground.
Eyes welling, he confides,
It was a song about us.
I crash to shaky earth,
Fumble on hands and knees
To piece together his song.

The man looked into the mirror. He had bought it less than two hours ago—a simple full-length, thankfully free of scratches and smudges. Childishly he raised his right hand. The person in the mirror raised his left. The man studied his reflection warily. Mirrors were not to be trusted. They never reflected him as others saw him, but in some impossible perspective that only existed in mirrors.