Tell time if you will, beloved,
tell dreams to the bird of god,
but stoop for the fallen feather
and brush away sleep.
Do what you can for a thing
so inconsequential
it can not speak for itself.
Think what a feather is,
and how its falling feels.
It needs speaking for.
Breathe, beloved, breathe.
As your heart is light
your words will fly,
and feathers get word
on their erratic way
that something cares,
lives and breathes
for falling feathers,
for all helpless things.
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