You will, at some point, find yourself wondering about that feather you’re watching lilt its way to the ground.
As it falls, does it remember what it was like to be in flight?
Does look for any chance to fling itself into the wind, to recall that wonder cartwheel,
or does hope and hope that another bird will tuck it into a hidden nest, giving it a place, if not another purpose?
Tuck this thought in your pocket for a time when you are in the tremble of need, and the words you say to yourself are cat-tongue rough.
In that moment, when your eyes itch with loss, when you stack shooting stars and they all fall down,
apply this salve.
Some silken evening a boy will stand just so in the sunset and your heart will bend toward his. The night will dim low, and a breeze will waltz you straight into his maroon and gold arms.
It could last twenty light years or one hundred days. It isn’t any more cruel to tell you that than it is to hear a boy make promises or spray paint true love always on the bleachers.
That isn’t the point at this moment, or ever.
All the while you’re pulling daisies by their deep roots, you’re adding petals to the fortress, this will be still true:
He was a feather, just as you are.
He floated down to you on a gusty gasp of night. He wasn’t what gave your DNA language, only a few action verbs.
But remember who you are:
You know how to talk to cardinals.
You feel the tree’s vibration in your bones.
You blaze impossible trails and have strong limbs that butterflies seek out for a few quiet moments of respite.
The feathers that soften your way recognize you, your blood memory.
Your meaning hasn’t changed, you still catch rides on your own wild, unfinished breeze.