I Talked to the Sun

Alone again on a February day warmer
than it should be this time of year—balmy even
like early spring, and birds, winter fat,
have returned to play among the bud-less coils
of wisteria vines that snake themselves along branches.
This is the third day of unseasonable temperatures.
The almost warmth radiates through the pane.
The winter doldrums have taken their toll and so many
have snapped under stressors and become the evening news.
Two years, two solid years of living life too
circumspectly to continue on this way.
Light blazes through the triple-wide window.
It promises spring’s arrival if I can just hold on.
Like Thurber, I talk to the sun as a friend. I say,
Don't lie to me. I need you to be honest and true.
Is there something of value at the end of this hiatus?
If I survive, will I have the life I fought for and enjoyed?
Will I ever feel at ease shoulder to shoulder in a crowd?
A selfish notion knowing our losses. The sun, today
a gentle body, bows his head and says, Yes, yes, yes.

The Anticipation of Flight

I've never known what it's like to fly,
to spread my wings and feel the air lift me

and have the current take me where I want to go.
I've never been on a mountain top

to see all there is to survey and breathe the rarest of air.
I've always lived at sea level,

somewhere inland among the squat dwellings
far from a panoramic view.

I don't know what it's like to fly,

but I feel the winds shifting and I feel
my wings spreading and soon one day

they’ll begin to flutter and have enough
power to lift me from the ground.

Ellen June Wright was born in England and currently lives in New Jersey. She has consulted on guides for three PBS poetry series. Her work was selected as The Missouri Review’s Poem of the Week in June 2021, and recently received five 2021 Pushcart Prize nominations.