Rainbows recede before the peak,
winds whoosh too fast for her to catch,
the thistles tear out from her grasp,
but she still flaps her withered wings.
Elders demand she take her fate,
but her wings span too wide to fit
inside the nook she’s been stuck with;
an island’s no room for her face.
She mimics everybody else,
but the bubble bursts in her hands,
her roses wither into sand,
her hatchling returns to the shell.
Back in her nook with withered face,
she picks up her tools and hits
each problem at the angles missed,
hammering away a new fate.
She usurps the stage with new wings
to present things that surpass peers,
transcend her caste, conquer her fears
of life at the trough of the peak.