I never saw them before you died.
Now I find them in the sidewalk,
in the forest, in my hair,
on the seat in a restaurant—
white feathers might show up anywhere.
Part of me says, Be rational.
Part of me falls into the sweetness
of how it feels, as if you’ve found a way
to find me from wherever you are,
and offer me feathers,
as if you’re trying to touch me,
as if you’re suggesting I could fly.