A feather fell
So compelled.
So easy to close one’s hand on so fine a feather.
A few have sailed in the pendulous descent,
to land gently where I stood.
Loosened by both bird taken flight and a bird landed.
Oh, these signs fall like dusty sandals across the threshold of the tavern door.
The source of the plumage is not of this earth –
it is but a reminder of the what is in true flight.
To close one’s hand on such a gift,
is to clip the wings of a heart.
And the hands of two around such a thing
is like placing love in a gilded cage.
But lo, an open hand is a perch
for the colored bird,
with all it’s attached and colored feathers
showing vibrantly in divine light.
What has landed in your hand –
has always been yours.
There is nothing to hold
And everything to release.
