By Jane McBride
The clipping of wings
Is it a necessity like the pruning of plants, for new growth, or is it like a grounding, a limiting?
And who decides?
For I am shut down, silenced, flightless and frightened, perhaps by my own fragility, perhaps by that of others.
Do wings grow again or are they gone forever, and can the heights they gave me be replaced by depths I cannot yet access?
It is painful to look up to where I no longer am, to look around to where I shiver in solitude, to cast my glance downwards to where perhaps I need to go.
It is an angry, anxious soul that inhabits me.
But this too will pass:
Because perhaps my wings are being exchanged for roots.
Painting by the Danish painter Carl Bloch