She remembers
the golden beam
when she was a little girl
The soft, warm touch on her
goose flesh, like Mom’s caress

It lost the tenderness now
Gentle yet prickly, thought provoking,
leading her eyes to the far side where
the little girl slid into the thirteen-winged
creature broods in wonder, yearning
and reaching for the glimmer in
the spring mists, untouchable yet

beckons, tantalizing enticement
She folds the wing momentarily,
lulls in the olden beam, aware of
the rawness calls for an ardent preparation
When the feathers matured, gained knowledge
she will search for the vision
beyond the hazy horizon

(by Byung A. Fallgren.  Byungafallgren.wordpress.com.)