Papery wings
fashioned with leaves and silk webs
cut ragged with feathery holes
the edges of the wounds cool
gaping and fluttering with swells
tied with twigs to her bare arms
caressing the curves of her spine
kissing her autumn pale skin
with touches of angels tears
falling like crystals on her blue lips
squeezed tightly shut against the frosted water
heartbeat frozen in time, in place
stilled in forever deep autumn
as she flies with her wings
her wings made of paper
and leaves and silk webs
out of her quiet calm pool
full of the angels
just like her
with sewn-shut eyes
and ice cold hands
but with no ragged wings
with which to fly
into the forever truth
of summer and spring
where the real angels go
with their papery wings
made of leaves and silk webs
freed of the burden
of forever cold.