wings and nest of a Fey

I’ll bet no one consulted Webster when I was named
But he responds online, he defines me as if he knew me.
Magical, wood sprite, seer, visionary, clairvoyant, supernatural, other worldly, unconventional, quaint.

Other than a couple tee shirts and funny old dresses.
My clothes closets and jewelry boxes echo empty.
I have no reason to dress up and be other than I am.

but on my walls, on Ebay specialty racks, are dozens in pairs.
just my size. transparent, opaque, colored Wings.
fully operational for flight.
so on equinox  fairy dust I travel
with silken harness,
i fly
just above
locust trees and
to Maroon Belle’s dale, Stonehenge sunset,
Sydney Opera House, Glasgow Kiss

In the Aerie
I dream of wings, for mine are clipped.
like exotic love birds that try to fly.
I live in fear of that which flies:
bees, yellow jackets, 747,
The Amtrak Ski Train.

I fly here in my nest.
alone in dark, for I can not sleep either.
iPad and I march With Terra Cotta Armies.

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