Feathers Don’t Fade




I want to be a feather in the pageantry of life,
a witnessing participant that floats above the strife.

A gavel strikes the judge’s bench
with undisputed force
until the next election
when the tide reverses course.

Subjected to the elements,
a hammer’s head will rust —
its handle rendered useless
as it slowly turns to dust.

So whether championed publicly
or building walls alone,
I’d rather drift aloft
than be indentured to the bone.

For fletches fall as gently as a whisper in the mist
delivering a summons with a finger, not a fist.



I want to be a feather in the cavalcade of art,
severely 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 akin to hoof or fin.

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


cc-by-nc-nd  Mary Boren, 2014

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