Each lullably her mother sang

was a white dove feather

she'd adhere onto her ashen wings,

in waiting for a wind

to scoop her up into a full, celestial ellipse 

into the cerulean perhaps she'd look at

from her small, bedroom window.

Lullabies of a once gallant sovereign of stars

and his decorated soldiers,

of milky stardust silhouettes,

pastel dainties,

and of dimming staircases

her mother would each describe

with a euphoric voice enough

to bloom cut flowers.

She'd finger-print her skin with dandelion wine

and press flowers onto her palms and kneecaps,

then fall asleep within velvet nights

in her hometown glade

as the constellations above her

read her cursive thoughts as stichs.

Years passed and on one wistful dawn,

she bid her callow wings and tip-toed

onto the eave of her small, bedroom window.

The opalescent sun glistened like a pearl,

and she felt like she could touch it.

Then, she let go.

She remembered falling

before the wind scooped her up

and led her into a slow pattern of

lissome ellipses into her great perhaps.

Celestial kingdom clouds caressed her porcelain palms

as the gallant sovereign of stars echoed

that she could never return back home,

and she never did.