Two Feathers

I was born with two feathers in my hand
to remind me of star songs,
of the true space between things,
to remind me of home.

I once talked to dandelions and ladybugs
in the green meadows of my childhood,
and made clouds disappear
with the sheer power of my will.
A weathered woman in Florida taught me,
while smoking golden cigarettes.

In autumn there was the rustle of leaves in my chest,
and the longing of birds pulled south by the sun.
I unearthed potatoes in the farmer’s fields and loved
their simple breakfast of bacon, bread, butter, and silence.

I drank milk still warm from a cow’s belly,
walked barefoot through steaming manure,
and wondered about the happiness of birds.

There is no time to watch clouds,
or follow the footsteps of a spider.
Letters are waiting to be opened,
clothes to be folded,
the child needs breakfast,
I hear the neighbors’ gossip through an open window,
weeds are waiting to be pulled,
the alarm goes off each morning
reminding me...