A Feather to Fly
I remember finding a feather in a field
looking at the color, the quill, the shape
looking about for a culprit
trying to fly by holding a hand over the naked spot
wondering if it would be embarrassed
I rubbed it against the skin of my cheek
and grinned
thinking about soaring
I went home and read about birds
and that was the first time that tool of flight
became a book marker holding my place
it turned into a scavenger hunt
and slowly I learned more and more about birds
and feathers
and how they fall out and are replaced
by the constant mending hands of time
how fingernails and feathers are both keratin
yet only one can defy gravity
I wished I believed in reincarnation
so I could be a bird one day
but the news said birds again fell from the sky
this new years
and blunt force trama still kills
so maybe its safer on the ground
maybe I just wish I could sing like the fluid flute of a thrush
or take off on a wing
I still pick up feathers when I see them
and I have many books to put them in
where they let my mind soar
and somehow still continue
to give flight
in a way my wish came true
and in a way it and I flew
where neither could before.
(northern flicker feather & weeping cherry flowers)
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