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A GIFT FOR TODAY
How can it be that feathers fly?
They drift in and out of windows,
fall like leaves through the air
and dance to the tune of the wind.
I find them resting in corners
or hiding behind my bookcase,
surprises out of the blue
while birds pretend otherwise.
Don’t they know when a feather
decides to fly, drift away
from practised routes of travel
to lighten the load, so to speak?
They curl into the palm of my hand
as if to show me there’s more
than just what the eye sees,
more than the words that roll off
my tongue. Each feather, large or small,
whispers its own story, a language
my heart knows only as an echo
of its own long and true telling.