The white-white wings were missing.
And now knew,
after three-hundred-thousand minutes,
definitely gone.

She looked up
from the burnt-out grove she had found
in the dark
among the trees,
lost and alone,
but still here.

As if an afterthought,
she looked deep inside herself
for the small,
—invisible, almost—
spark of ridiculous, impossible hope,
to find it had gone out
somewhere in the night.

She looked at her hands,
covered in ashes from the dark and grey ground,
and looked at her legs, which would still carry her.
She stood up slowly, unsteadily,
and found the strength to give up
waiting for someone to help her.
She would have to help herself.

And perhaps one day look again for wings,
or build her own,
but today only,
take one step in front of the other
and see where it leads.