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Posts Tagged ‘feather’

A Sign?


 
 
There, on my sleeve, a small white feather.
I don’t know that I believe in signs.
But the white feather that appears on my sleeve
while I think of saying goodbye to my girl
doesn’t mean nothing. It says to me,
pay attention. It says, slow down. It says,
you have learned how to love what isn’t here.  
I think of all the white feathers I started to see
after the death of my son. On the sidewalk.
In the air. On a mug. In a dream.
So I say to the feather, I see you. And I say
to the feather, thank you for reminding me
to notice the smallest of things. I say to the feather,
such a gift that you should appear here now.
And I say to my girl, I see you. And I say to my girl,
I love how good your hand feels in my hand. And I say
to my girl, such a gift you are here right now.

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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.

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on the brightest day
the shadows steep darker—
winging through them
on imperceptible wind
a white feather

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