Wingwork

Wingwork

What used to be a roof
is nothing but ribs now—
charred beams fanned outward
like the underside of a great bird
on the cusp of flight.

Fire consumed the shelter,
the covering, the comfort,
left only the bones
and the open sky beyond them.

But standing here, beneath it,
I can’t help but see
how the ruin lightened it—
how the weight burned away
until all that remained
was the rough geometry of wings.

Rust and ash at my feet,
smoke-stained metal above,
and yet the whole structure
seems poised to rise,
as if collapse itself
was the last thing anchoring it.

Maybe this is how flight begins—
not with the building up,
but the burning down,
until the broken thing
finally remembers
how to lift.