This was originally written as a short story. It is recreated here as a prose poem. For every dreamer who wants to fly.

THE GIRL WHO DREAMED

She stood on the very peak of the roof,
finding it not at all odd to be there.
She couldn’t wait
to ride the wind.
It was wonderful. Beautiful.
The sky dark indigo,
dotted wildly
with brilliant stars.
Fear did not touch her.
So much to feel!
A warm breeze fluffed her hair.
A kiss of fragrance,
the honeysuckle vine at the corner.
In this moment, she was sun and moon,
no one to tell her what to do
or how to do it
or when to do it.
She was the power of now,
calm and assured,
not at all like her real self,
fear-filled, tender of heart,
shy, leggy and thin, no one special.
She shook away the thoughts.
Let there be no intrusion.
Peace. Quiet.
Her heartbeat accelerated!
What brought about the change
sweeping over her!
Her victory over mediocrity,
snatched away, robbing her of serenity.
Tranquility fled.
Her heart raced!
The moaning wind
whipped her hair
around her angular face;
it pressed her gown
against her legs.
“Jump,” the wind said. “Jump!”
“I can’t! I can’t!”
“Jump, jump, jump,” the wind wailed.
“I can’t! I can’t!”
“You can, you must!
You cannot know who you are until you try!”
She leaned into the wind and jumped
taking in the arc of the sky,
the distant horizon.
The wind caught the sleeves of her gown,
lifted her gently, softened her descent.
She awoke, safely in her bed,
but the words echoed in her mind:
You cannot know who you are
until you try.
For the girl,
it was the beginning
of who she would become.

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