Improbable Feathers


The Poet by Christian Schloe

By Annette Marie Hyder

It’s true. We do use our own feathers
in
writing, in making, in creating.
We pull them from our backs, throats,
and breasts. Or we find a feather
lying on the ground
pick it up and treasure it as our own
and so it does become
ours.
Don’t think of soft
down filled comforters,
of feather
fat pillows,
or angel wings fringed in dazzling
quills of sapphires, rubies, and gold,
but of one iridescent plume
shimmering in the mud
or still visibly jutting from the
corner
of the proverbial cat’s grin.
Or, think of that feather
improbably angled
from a lone wolf’s paw.

(NaPoWriMo day 22)