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