They are

Feathered wings, edged in gold

and spoon silver

from half-crushed mines

Where matches struck

and axes fell

They are

cherry-red umbrellas, snapping

to the plucked-out tune

Of my harp-heart

In the shade of

aspen trees,

sighing beneath a summer sun.

They are laced scaffolding,

supporting the frail structure 

of my lungs.