Pink Feather

In my upstairs hallway,

Atop the floor boards I painted last year,

In the corner next to the seahorse bookshelf,

This single pink feather sits.

Every time I see it

I think about picking it up,

But I don’t.

It seems to fit there,

For now,

A random thing without a place,

Just like everything that ends up on that colorful old bookshelf,

Just like the bookshelf itself.

It was moved out of my daughter’s room

When it no longer fit.

Now, books or clothes or towels or toys

Or broken things destined for downstairs

Rest on it briefly

Before reaching their final destination.

An airport

In between flights.

In this cafe now,

I’m struggling

For a way to wrap this poem up neatly

With a pretty pink bow

With my pretty pink laptop,

But I can’t quite figure out how.

Sometimes things can’t be explained,

Like single pink feathers,

That should be picked up

Thrown away,

But instead are left and looked at,

Day after day,

Because they match so well with a seahorse bookshelf

Because they’re tucked in a corner,

Out of the way,

And you just can’t quite bring yourself

To throw them away.


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