For Courtney: With Wings Poem by Will Thomas

This morning,
at about ten after eight,
eyes still aching
from all of those tears,
I stand at my office window
and look out
at an impossibly orange sun
climbing into
a blue celebration of sky.

In the background,
the haunting beginnings of Carrickfergus:
aching flutes and yearning pipes
calling,
beckoning my heart
to yours.

And in this moment,
hands in the back pockets
of worn blue corduroys,
squinting through a salt-stained window
on the last (and much welcomed) Thursday
of a sad and sadder January,

I see
(or seem to see)
drifting through my soul (and yours, sweet child)
a pale bouquet
of Emily Dickinson's feathers.

You, the eternal bruise and brilliance of my heart.
You, the memory that whispers endlessly
of wonder and wings.

Good Morning, Court.
Thank you for coming.

January,1999