Tag Archives: flight

How Could We Know?

How could we know
that the severing hand would come at last
for her,
the last innocent among us.

How could we know
that by standing once
(when they said we should not)
singing once
(when they said we should not)
kneeling once
(when they said we should not)
that we would go this way

How could we know
that our defiance
made the passersby a part of the fight
whether they chose it or not?

How could we know
that the severing hand would come at last
for the final innocent among us?

How could we know
that we would hear them
nailing shut her door?

How could we know
we who planned nothing,
that when the light was gone,
when the moon was gone
that our dry hands, our bleeding fingers
would scramble into the wood
until the door was down
and we could take her back?

How could we know
that after that we were moving,
always moving,
through brown bracken fields at night
on forgotten roads in what had been
the heart of America
past relics of prosperity and hope and lies
in neon and weedy parking lots.

How could we know that
the last thing she would see
of freedom
would be the brown-edged petal
of a dying pink rose?

How could we know the enemy
had so many empty rooms waiting for us?

– Copyright Kay Winter

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They drive with their horns
and thudding hooves
against the dry ground
raising dust that I am the shadow against.
Above the running
I am with the wind
in flight
the canyon.

@copyright Kay Winter

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Something Cold Falls

In these endless days,
I think of the small yellow room
off the kitchen
where we had our coffee every morning.

I remember sitting with you
looking out the window
over the cobbled streets
of our old city,
now blasted and forsaken.

And something cold falls
through my heart.

I write to you every day
on scraps of paper
folded and refolded
worn and gray at the edges
but each time
I pass a mailbox
I remember that you are no place
that I can send it to.

And something cold falls
through my heart.

When I dream of the worst,
that they have you,
Of what they do,
I wake up
and hold my hands against my cheeks
as you did.

You are alive,
I tell myself,

And I am fleeing.

My old striped suitcase
of orange and green
that fell on your head
on the train ride
through the mountains
so many years ago
drags behind me
leaving bruises on my ankles.

Where I am is nowhere.
I am only where I am from.
And where I am from
is no longer there.

The changing sky
follows me
as I travel,
the gray clouds
chase me across the distances.

Tonight I write to you
in the margins of
a magazine
someone left
in the train station.
Near the words I cannot read,
I write:

Dear lover,
I am safe here
in a small room
with bare walls
and sheets that smell of bleach.

Someday, dear one,

I stop here and
look out the cold window…

We will walk back
along the night streets
where we parted
past the secrets
of the rustling palms
back to the small yellow room
and the coffee
will be thick
and bright.

– Copyright Kay Winter

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On the falling shoulders of the tired men
in front of me in the elevator,
Through the absent stares of the women
looking into the long lists of the future,
I want the light of grace to fly
like an albatross,
swooping down
to follow our small ships.

Copyright Kay Winter

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Floyd Crimson


He falls from the sun.


We fall.


Songs like the tongues of larks.




Wishing we were there.


Jump. Fall. Learn to fly.


Crimson songs, brighter than red.


Mountain tops below flight.


Distant kings.


Singing infinitely in the sheltering sky.


Falling. Learning to fly.


Being flight.


White words in the book of days.


Discarded loose shoes.


Island edge.


Space below the island.


Space above the sea, above the sky.


Drum talk.


God waves safe passage.


Strange trip.


Coming back to land.


Hardened into diamonds.


New machines and easy for money.


But crazy.


Shining on.


– Kay Winter



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