I found a feather

3.29.13

on the stones near your house.
Picked it up and tucked it into my vest
with the branch from the popcorn tree.
Which is budding.  It's March and I'm shaking
and I wanted to bring you a branch.

In many lives I have been afraid
to pick up feathers.
My father always told me they'd make me sick.
But since the first summer I worked on the farm
I've worked barefoot, even near the chickens
and lived through it.

So take it, I don't know, it's blue and lovely
and matted.  You say it's been there for days
and you keep meaning to grab it.
Last night I dreamed I went to pick some kale
and it was so green and firm until you said
No, look at all the bugs
and suddenly all I could see was caterpillars.

To go back to what I first saw;
no less real, my own,
never shaken.
Sometimes that is all I want.