The Weight of Wings

I was born with pockets full of stones,
each one etched with a silence
someone pressed into my palm.

I carried them through doorways,
into sleep,
into conversations where laughter
felt borrowed.

But one night, a sparrow
landed on the railing of my chest.
It bent its head to drink from the hollow
I thought was empty
and found water still.

Since then, I have stitched feathers
to my grief,
turned laments into lullabies,
let the dawn arrive like an unwritten letter
and answered it with breath.

I am no longer ashamed of weight.
Stones teach the river its language.
Even gravity has its hymns.

When I open my hands now,
they do not fall.
They rise
a sudden flock,
my sky full of wings.