The Sorrow Beneath their Wings

She comes here most mornings,

sipping a cup of coffee,

or clutching some new book in her hand

waiting, for what-- I don't know.

She never gets on,

she never gets off

and there's something off

about her;

a sorrow that lingers

long after she departs.

People rush to and fro

their legs propelling them

towards their destination

but there she sits,

gazing out the window

under the shadow of the airplane's silhouette.

The mechanized birds,

with their frozen white wings

soar into the sky.

But she remains,

a semi-permanent resident

of this transient abode.

Perhaps she is too scared to come aboard,

or perhaps she's waiting for someone

who never comes,

or maybe she simply loves the motion,

the cacophony of people

that bustle through this busy place.

Today she sits alone, empty-handed

just like yesterday,

just like she will tomorrow,

no suitcase full of memories of who she was

or who she wishes she could be.

Splotches of purple cover her arms

like a bird who as rubbed its wings raw

during the molting process.

With eyes like that of a hawk

she watches as the planes make their way down the runway

and into the sky.

Maybe one day she will get on a plane

and soar high above the clouds

and charter a new path--

but not today.

Today she sits,

clutching her mug in a grip too tight

watching the airplanes fly off

into the morning sun,

trapped within the shadow of their glory.