They drift together, stuck to the surface,
never free. I must pick them away
the way petals are picked from daisies.
The Earth is tucked into a blanket,
warm and comforting, but also dark,
and white and silver feathers drift down.
They land on my lashes like thick snowflakes
and I hold them in the palms of my hands.
They're light and soft to the touch; pure.
These feather flakes, these silver threads,
these memories that tickle my nose,
are the droppings of restless little birds
that, with their belly feathers wet,
entered Heaven, never to return to me,
never to nest in my feeble skeleton,
never to weep again.