Singular. This one feather fallen.
Among countless, competing things,
so small really, odds are only one
or a few people will lay eyes on it.
Wouldn’t it be easy not to notice?
This morning, though, its loneliness
makes me ache for those who suffer,
who have let go of their bodies
and landed somewhere in the world
or beyond it. It contains so much–
look closely: the patterns, markings
of a creature flying with one less
feather to keep it aloft, or perhaps
lighter now, soaring. I’ll never know.
I think I will bring it inside now,
to stay next to the holy water
from Lourdes, the olive pit Buddha,
the rose quartz heart my daughter
gave me, bedside and cherished,
separated for good from the bird
but kept as a reminder that we die
alone, but live in flocks, and love.
For Kathy.Cook. May you rest in peace.