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,
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.
In between flights.
In this cafe now,
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
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.