Autumn

“Love and kindness are never wasted. They always make a difference.”
—Helen James

I have been reading the
same poetry book since June.
Nothing changes there.
Neither poems nor plots.

Yet, I claim to have changed
reading it. I sleep
better and deeper now,
sometimes, even dream,
but mostly hope.

Hope for white.
Hope for feathers.
Hope for wings.

Not the ones that got clipped,
they were worn anyway.
Rather, I am regrowing a pair
of new ones:

furrier and kinder this time.
And it is autumn now. A season
to be reborn.