The small feather was born aloft
as the pillow – now plumped, sunken shadows
of sleeping heads removed – its position
found once more. Adrift,
white and fragile remnant of bird once winged –
free to hope, to soar; free
to breathe, to dream –
descended slowly to the ground.
Not the bed, not the bed. Escape
it found on floor’s surface, safe now
from further sensual or somnolent affronts,
forced out from even its pillow
prison of before; and then before.
What sights, what sounds. Peace
there was in the chill draft that urged
it out the room and down the stairs, to dance
a last loop in the hall, before true
freedom stole it out the house
to soar, breeze born, into skies clear blue.
Flight without body;
a soul at last