Welcome

Welcome to what?
A window.  A question.
Just me, opening a drawer
and lifting from underneath
t-shirts faded by washings,
jeans thin at the knee,
mismated cotton socks,
embarrassing underthings, a wing.
It's rumpled, unweildy,
but look, there's a gleam
in each crease. It's my wing,
but with only one I flopped
in loopy circles, skinned my knees
as I careened against
the weight of things.

Do you have a wing?
Look in the back of your closet,
or in the box under your bed.
Then meet me.  Where the sky
is most longing, I'll be waiting
to take your hand and leap.