Naiveté says, a women’s heart is a white wing,
Flying high and free in the clear blue sky.
Yet hers is a downward winged spiral. A descent.
Hooked by the Underworld; the dark earth
The sinewy roots, caverns and wet rocks.
In a tattered, ramshackle heart-space, tears drip.
Bloody and boned, a wolf howls.
She rests here awhile. Boots under the bed,
Wipes the mascara from her face,
Brushes feathers from her matted hair.
Checks out her heart. Is it still in one piece?
The quest is a secret unrest that gnaws at her roots
Breathless, she muses,
“Am I imprisoned or free?”
Unlocks the chamber, the archive of the heart
An angel with broken wings remits -
“Here on the valley floor, growers are caterpillars.”
She honors the truth; a circle of birth, death and rebirth.
Against all odds, the masks fall away. Shedding,
She dissolves into endings. The world dissappears
Into a haze of dazzling darkness. A butterfly wing unfolds
Fleeing its earthy cocoon for open skies
In a silent searching flight.
The wing’d heart of compassion.
© Frances Roberts-Reilly, Gulfport Fl, 2014