Angel wings
Stand between the wings; when the wind comes, you are about to fly.

This chapter is about the second a visitor lifts a phone. Frames, letters, arches, sculpted seats and lights: placed right, one turn becomes a picture.
Stand between the wings; when the wind comes, you are about to fly.
Sit inside the orange arch; the sea breeze goes in and out, and the afternoon is gone.
A door with no house behind it. Open it, and there is only the sea.
A white birdcage lands on the sand, door open, stairs waiting.
Sit, and the wings open behind you. Swing, and you are flying.
A pink pavilion with a glass roof, so the blossom is the ceiling.
A green canopy over the whole seaside evening.
Where the trees stop, we add the shade.
Lights on, and the lakeshore has a living room.
A little chapel built only for photographs, its door always open.
Time stops at the top of the swing.
A grass-green gate, three seats beneath; sit, and the lake is your backdrop.
Push off, and the mountains swing with the cloud.
Three letters that say it for the whole city.
Six metres of swing, and the whole gang goes up together.
Swing out, and there is nothing in front of you but sea.
The bronze wings are already framed. All that is missing is you.
A cloud of colour that settled on the slope and stayed.
Say your vows to the flowers.
A tree that never stops blooming, waiting on the beach for company.
Walk through the pink gate, and it is spring.
One giant chair, and everyone is a child again.
The stairs end at a tree of balloons. Above that, only sky.
One frame, and the whole range steps inside.
Stand inside the heart; the whole gorge is behind you.
Snow all night, and two people sitting inside the heart.
Two hearts sit face to face, with just room for a sentence between them.
A white hexagon; sit inside and you are the picture.
A honeycomb of small rooms, each with its own view.
A pink house with only doors and windows, and the sea comes in through them.
A cloud made of squares on two white posts; the swing hangs from its underside.
Under the lotus leaf there is room for a table and an afternoon.
Two people drawn in a single line, talking by the sea all afternoon.
Step into the ring, and your pace slows.
A milk carton big enough to walk into; the doorway is the frame.
A round window in the rice, and the sky steps through it.
After dark the hand lights up; its ring holds you mid-air.
A ladder leaning on the moon; nobody climbs, everyone looks up.
A nest woven from vine and flowers, facing the sea; sit in and you go quiet.
Sit in the heart, and the sand spells out the rest.
Every step is a key. The last one is a cloud.
Thirty strips of bamboo twisted into a gust. Step inside, and the sea turns with it.
Pink stairs going up, and at the top a frame full of sea.
A radio taller than the crowd, playing all summer.
Walk under the rainbow, and the next step is sunshine.
A white frame around the horizon, and around you.
A cream violin stands on the sand; when the wind comes, the scroll turns.
The second the veil lifts, the ring closes around the two of you.
A ring rests on the water; after dark, a second one appears beneath it.
Lie down: the smile above you, the sea below, the wind doing the rocking.
A big smile at the top of the steps; halfway up, everyone looks up and smiles back.
Up in circles, banana leaves brushing your shoulder, and at the top the wind suddenly picks up.
A field made into a stamp, addressed to everyone who ever came.
Sit inside the star, mountains at your feet, clouds passing behind.
A heart woven from reeds; sit inside, and the mountain is inside too.
Five lilac pods in a row, each just big enough for one table of friends.
An old TV standing on the grass, and now you are what is on.
Up the strings one at a time, and on the scroll the sea is playing below you.
One table, one small island; halfway through dinner the lights come up on the water.
A white chapel by the sea; the door opens, and the wind carries the veil toward the water.
Three white arches cut the sky into three frames; step in and you are the picture.
Dozens of pinwheels stacked into a tower; when the wind comes, the whole tower turns.
A timber box in the woods; sit in, and there is only wind and birds.
Frame inside frame, and the sky gets smaller and farther with every step.
Sun through the slats, and the whole day is drawn on the ground.
Reach the top step, and the wind plucks a string for you.
One page has a window cut in it. The lake behind is real.
Sit inside the TV. Tonight's show is you.
A blue heart standing in the snow. Ski straight through.