Feathers

Feathers



Feathers.
Remnants of a life scattered
in disarray upon the ground.

Water.
The source of life that, in the light,
bejewels and hides the truth.

I sit with her and memories arise
floating like feathers
on a vagrant breeze.

Memories of before.
Before her body turned against her,
cell against cell, angry, uncontrolled.
Life killing life.

The darkness in her
has invaded her thoughts
and she pulls life plumage
and casts it down ...
... hating the past
for fear of the future.

I must be water.
Highlighting the peaks,
shining light through the prism
of time and coloring her past
in rainbow hues.

I must be hope.
  I cannot be truth.

Notes:

For Candace ... Jul 13, 1946 - Oct 9, 2009.

Thank you for taking time to read my words.  I would appreciate it if you took a moment and left a comment.  Your reaction, impressions, criticisms, - yes, even praise -  are all equally welcome.

Ken