Celia Lawren
In my next life, I want wings
and a better sense of direction
like birds, which have patiently waited
for their ground-hugging bodies
to become aerodynamic and sleek—
solid to hollow, forelimbs to feathers,
oh, those wondrous wings.
What I wouldn’t give to have
a magnetic map tucked inside my beak,
lit compass beaming brilliant
in my eyes, to see forever,
to find a safe place to land.
And butterflies—
creatures so ephemeral
they seem a dream—
are deceptively strong,
with wings of chitin membranes
and millions of overlapping scales
to enhance lift.
They seem driftless
flying in figure eights
yet their method
propels them forward,
one generation after another,
riding on hope to cross continents.
I want to live with such purpose,
to stake my survival on
instinct and trust.
Other work by Celia Lawren