I knew she could,

when she said—

nearly up to the rocks,

looking up through new leaves,

swirls of creamy yellow and pink,

crimson red,

like birds born overdue,

feathers more than ready,

just a little wet,

like baby birds

with more strength than baby birds

could rightfully possess,

pushing free from

shells with no more weight

than a glimmer of light

(but how firm they’d held!),

looking up through leaves at an azure

deeper than we’d ever known before,

her fingertips

pressing into my shoulder—

I knew she could,

when she said,

“I wish I could fly.”