She is watching a fly
on the wall
and listening
to Blue Angels
flying just overhead.

She is thinking about children
with no wings,
whose eyes were trained
(before they could see)
to fix themselves
on flashing lights and false flags.

She is dreaming
of a world
where accidents
of birth or time or place
do not foretell dark fortunes
for the pure of heart,
and young mothers
bare their breasts
in the warm summer rain,
without fear of soldiers.

She is dreaming
of aeonian fields,
where innocence grows wild
and Love has no walls,
and freedom,
no longer a prisoner of war,
breaks loose in a firestorm
of Imagination and Light.

She is staring at the fly
flailing against the window,
and wondering if flies dream,
and whether she should open the window
to set this one free.

She wonders (briefly),
as it falls to the floor,
if flies can die of disappointment,
and what might have been
had she opened the window
a minute sooner.

She wonders
if it is too late
to look out
and see the Sky.