Hope In Wings Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

The crown
pigeon slipping
off your hand,

as you curve in
your fingers
into a soft
herringbone nest

too porous
to hold
the bird's head
you miss

and catch only
cream
and flint air,

every bird
dressed
in a gray cloud.

The gem fleeing
a stormy gale
on a hare's hoofs

and lightning
flashed
by a comet's tail,

after fleeing sparrows
have plucked
strings of red
and yellow fiber

from a bubbling
volcano
in flint threads
of ashes

and graphite
mites
of cinders,

lightning whisking
a scimitar
and rapier to worm

off into a melting
sky with a lime lizard.

(ii)

Winged hope,
a buzzing bee's
fleet, a spark,
an unclothed rainbow

flying off
into a tray of zircons
rolling off

into the stars
of a red beryl
burning no fingers,
but blowing

winds to drift in
the murmuration
of starlings
clothed in sapphires

landing
in blue specks
of cotton and wool,

when times bleat
and breezes
rattle with a curled tail.