September 17, 2013Of Feathers
Cindy is dying and all day
feathers are falling
in front of my eyes they drift
like leaves from palm fronds
from trees past the windshield
of the car when I drive
air lifts them across hedges
sidewalks and in my patio
they cling to the fence or roll
down the hill of the blue umbrella
from the high hills an owl feather
rests in the palm of my hand
pale gold and so light I can barely
feel it
where is the dividing line
between the here and the there? the moment
weightless between one step and the next
I listen as she pulls at each breath visible
even as the invisible opens
my touch on her forehead just a whisper
of the air I can feel on my skin
from #20 - Winter 2003