I have been an injured bird so long,
grounded while my friends fly far from home,
exploring and experiencing the world.
I hobbled forward with broken wings day
after day, lying in cold creeks and
chewing willow or laurel to
ease the pain. I collect as much fluff
and down and scraps of fabric to
line my nest to the ultimate level of
luxury because it is what I deserve
and it is not fair—none of this is
fair: I am in pain while others fly
free.

I crossed paths with luck and found
help after help after help, surgery
and metal to fix my wings, physical
therapy to remind me of what is
natural, inborn, that I too am
meant to fly.

Now that I am able, I haven’t left
my luxurious nest, I haven’t met up
with the other birds in far away places.
I freeze over and over, frightened by
my injury, my past, my trauma, the
incident that changed the course of my
life and grounded me, and I soothe over
and over because I have to survive somehow.
I am no longer in danger, but habits are hard to change.

I am calmer now, more acclimated to
a life with less danger, but sometimes
adventure looks more like peril than fun.
I am no longer in crisis, but how I took care
of myself is hard to shake.
I am afraid as I compulsively soothe unruffled feathers,
that they will fall off, never having been used,
and my adventure will never begin.