Feathers Don’t Fade

I want to be a feather in the cavalcade of art,
adrift or buffeted by bluster, never losing heart.

A mule can plow a furrow straight
with naught but fallow rows
awaiting fertile harvest while
its droppings decompose.

A school of fish can navigate
impenetrable lines,
but following the current draws
predictable designs.

So whether borne on eagle wings
or molted from a wren,
I’d rather drift aloft than be
attached to hoof or fin.

I want to fall as gently as
a whisper in the mist
delivering a summons with
a finger, not a fist.

Subjected to the elements,
a hammer head will rust —
its wooden handle petrified
of turning into dust.

But quills will still be moving in the metaphoric haze
as lanterns of enlightenment until the end of days.