Fine snippets on the backs of ladybugs give just
enough oomph to propel a wee creature onto the palm
of one’s hand. To a wing, an infinitely small wonder,
just a trifle hardly seen, one utters,
“How do you flutter up, you tiny thing?”
Astonishing in beauty, wings of mighty angels herald
harmony in their purity; as intermediaries, and
peace-makers… like the dove released following the
flood. Fearlessly, it rose into a rainbow’s protective
arch, and—over all—it watched.
There are such things as magical wings beyond
imagination. Fine and filmy, and fastened behind the
breasts of faeries, they take flight. A humble child may ask
the fairness of the spirited faeries, “Extend your charms,
sprinkle your magic over children like Tinkerbell did
with her wings and wand.”
Boarding the billowed sail of wind, when seeking
comfort on a sea of life, allow wind’s wings to lift the
spirit and cleanse the heart and the cheeks where tears
once welled from the stifled depths of one’s throat.
In nocturnal whispers of night, innocent cherubs’
wings soar with acceptance. One needs not hide in the
folds but merely seek and ask, “Inner child, bless me
that I may see, in your sacred smile, a promise that
nothing is impossible. Please stay awhile.”
The wings of windmills, swirling in heaven, bring
some assurance; for, a heaven on this earth does exist!
Its evidence? “It is before your very eye,” windmill
responds with lifted wings a-whirl.
In a nightly haze, an avid fisherman casts his line over
the river of dreams and beyond the unadulterated
woodland to the horizon. He begs the loon, flying alone
on the windless sky, to softly woo Mother Nature
in the rhythmic hush of its wingspan-song.
Marionette angels, whose wings operate mechanically,
tickle the young, aged, and young at hearts. Regressing into
a childhood world of Peter Pan, a classical flight into fantasy
on wings of wire cable, folks are inspired to take a whimsical
approach to flying on a wing and a prayer, as young lovers
do…with an unseen power beneath their wings.
On those wings of hope it is no wonder goals are met.
Given the musical lyrics of Bette Midler and Rita McNeil,
truths are recognized: “never been so strong, never been
happier, never been wiser,” since learning to “fly on
my own.” That is just because others we love “are
the wind beneath [our] wings!”
Would you wish, in a nightly dream, to live your days
with energy as a hummingbird does? If so, after exertion
from tasks, lay thee down, on plumage plucked from
young geese; and rest your weary head upon goose down!
The exceptional degree of the littleness of fire fly’s,
lightning bugs’ and glow worm’s wings in the night
air matters not; for instinctively they linger ‘till
summer’s end on a moonlit hill. Fragile things,
on infinitely small bodies, they fly up to respond
to Mother Earth’s plea to light her galaxy.
Through sun-tinted clouds or billowing white heaps,
through sky’s wind tunnels, updrafts, heat waves; and
banks of fog, one deserves to fly freely not unlike the
character, Yentl, who, aboard ship on imaginary wings,
fled to a new land. “Papa can you hear me?” She sang on
the wing not to escape—to overcome fears by winging it.
Over chasms of imperfections, which previously
drowned good intentions, a flight into the unknown
validates one’s unseen courage, of mind, body, and soul,
to sprout appendages of hope; and fly through countless
circumstances, to measureless heights on spiritual
wings of immortality for all infinity. As the night-
time dance of each silver wing delights, suspended is
the drama, as though waiting in the wings of the
Orpheum, until curtains are raised for one’s entry
into yet another dream where one is gifted
with the wings of chance.
By Rita Joan Dozlaw, Kamloops, B.C.
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