Every inch of the frozen snow
accumulates onto my orange and black, delicate wings
in straight lines shaped like a “V,”
so that I carry the world’s problems
that flow through the crystal, straight lines.
My thick skin is the texture
of the pink and yellow
soft flower petals
blooming through the cracked concrete
paved by humans,
their hard work
never given much thought,
just accomplished to help people walk toward their hopes and dreams.
Shivers careen throughout my soft wings
as they flutter in the sky,
which is the color of the intricate
that in my imagination
are orange and black, darkness swirling with the lightness, together against their odds,
like how when anger and sadness clash together, red and blue create room for love and grief to foster.
The line on each snowflake is unique. As they collide with each other, they clump together. But my lines are not straight, they are curved.
So, I fly alone.
in the lonely white sky, a shade lighter than gray.
You see me.
But my wings still carry the piles of snow. There are cracks in my wings. But they are not broken.
Orange-skinned fruit sways in the distance, their colors faded from my vision. I squint my eyes and become so focused on deciphering the different colors on the skin of the orange fruit, soaking in the green patches lightly colored on the skin, that the “cackoo, cackoo, cackooooooo” sounds of the bright blue birds with their fierce red-orange beaks lifted up toward the sky are barely audible through the brown oval holes in my wings.
My wings bend beneath the weight of the white snow. In the thin air, my lungs burn as they barely break down the oxygen molecules. But there is strength inside of my wings, built from years of flying. When I taught myself to navigate the air, my friends and family flew with me and landed with me while I struggled. Over time, my internal compass became easier to understand.
The sky changes from black-streaked gray
to a blank white slate,
ready for my orange and black ink to write out the journey of me spreading my wings
and slowly lifting my body from the ground.
My wings are held down as my memories bring me back to my mom’s smile,
and the softness of her bright orange and pink wings that once hugged me.
Love fills my wings with strength,
and now, flying through this white sky, I see the shades of gray and black, and
my mom’s bright orange ink and my orange ink shine together,
while the black and pink inks merge to shine a light in the darkness.
The pile of snow collecting and then dispersing into the frigid air makes the longing to hug my mom
feel like piles of snow have crushed my body so that my orange and black body is flat.
But I raise my wings up as I carry the snow on them and push hard against the icy wind.
Sweet smelling grass tickles my thin, black antennae as my body careens like a rollercoaster,
to where the green grass is crushed underneath the soft frozen water.
All six of my legs tenderly land on the frosty snow.
My black and orange wings
a dark brown, thick tree with green branches, bent and swaying in the harsh winds,
and I daintily walk into a hole underneath the tree,
walking further on the cold, black soil, that slowly becomes warmer with each step,
as I internally embrace myself into the warmth of my mom’s arms.
Rachael Weiser is a talented, passionate, and motivated writer. She is also a curious, insightful, caring, compassionate, observant, and creative person. Rachael is very eager and excited to work for a company as a writer after she graduates college!
Featured image by Aaron Burden.