feather
head, floating

a little this way,
a little that;

one current lifts,
another drives down;

no matter how I prop it up
with breath it will drop

at some point to the floor
where it will stir a little

now and then
but mostly will lie still

having found its lowest level.
at last, I don’t care.

the drift was movement
and what I needed to do.

that feather, my head
on the floor full of dust,

that’s my truth and my real face.
hollow, almost weightless,

a discard.  you can’t look at it
and tell where it’s been.  you know

it was made for flight and it’s not
flying now.  that’s all you and I know.

don’t say
you cannot believe
you’re in love again.

say instead you are pleased
that the cup on the shelf
is battered metal
but still holds water,
or wine, or paper clips,
that it remains fillable.

don’t say you’re afraid,

say instead that the cat
is unaccustomed to sleeping
on the back of the couch
and is striving to seem at ease
but looks like he knows he may fall.

don’t say
you are sure of failure.

say instead that when the nut falls
from its branch,
two scars always remain: one on the tree,
one on the nut.  say instead
that breakage precedes growth.

the world offers you
agreement upon agreement.
take what help is offered,
no matter whence it comes.