The Poet by Christian Schloe
By Annette Marie Hyder
It’s true. We do use our own feathers
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
Don’t think of soft
down filled comforters,
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
of the proverbial cat’s grin.
Or, think of that feather
from a lone wolf’s paw.
(NaPoWriMo day 22)