Like a bird with clipped wings
I can no longer fly
and I don’t know
how to navigate this.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Anxiety
sits in my shoulders
like a bird
without wings
watching
the approach of winter.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Nestled in the nook of the window,
a moth,
sheltered
between concrete and wood.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Behind the wheel,
he’s a man with small feet.
At home,
his fists are made of iron.
As for me,
I’m a flower in winter,
a bird
without wings.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Rebecca L. Atherton 