Out Poem by robert dickerson

Mom was getting cross-to feed him more a chore.
'It's time to go, child, you must leave me now:
It's what I've done this for'.
'But Mama, how'?

'Look at your wings-see how fine a feather
lines them, and how wide they are?
Simply trust the aether
Its what they're for.

Then, almost with the act of wonderings' grim
impetus, he thought he saw a way:
there was a path-it led from star to star.
Spreading his wings he clambered to the rim:
a wandering zephyr came and lifted him
bearing him away.