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CEDARVILLE
REVIEW
8
Remiges and Retrices
By Ruth Towne
Would I were winged—but not so others see.
Not hollow-feathered dapple-downed with brown
or better chestnut, almond felt, pillowed, pressed
against a pencil-sketched, blue-ruled sky.
No, not a sparrow, not a dove (though white
soft-frosted, snow-clad, billowed, blank) called
upon to blot, erase, to clean long-cried
war-words, to piece the fragments, hover, heal.
Not even half-mast, flapping, an unfurled
bald eagle waving over cities, crowds.
For these winged-things appear more poorly plucked
Than true. Would I were winged—I’d rise where none
survey, where none could daub my wings away.