A Poem a Day (234): Feathers

 Feathers

The girl scooped the feathers in her hands,
Palms pressed so they need not fly away.
Such delicate curls of white, downy soft,
Like the fur of her mother’s sleeping cat.

She stroked and cupped them to her cheeks
To smell the sweet sour essence of the bird.
They tickled her nose, fingers, made her giggle.

The girl imagined a great wild bird so majestic,
A wanderer, a fighter, a heroine of its kind,
Of such immense beauty everyone stared.

But why and where had the creature flown,
Leaving in such a hurry she forgot her cloak?
The wild bird would need everything she had,
So the girl held the feathers out and blew.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 7, 2020