A gift in an open hand

A feather fell
A feather fell

So compelled.
So easy to close one’s hand on so fine a feather.
A few have sailed in the pendulous descent,
to land gently where I stood.
Loosened by both bird taken flight and a bird landed.

Oh, these signs fall like dusty sandals across the threshold of the tavern door.
The source of the plumage is not of this earth –
it is but a reminder of the what is in true flight.

To close one’s hand on such a gift,
is to clip the wings of a heart.
And the hands of two around such a thing
is like placing love in a gilded cage.

But lo, an open hand is a perch
for the colored bird,
with all it’s attached and colored feathers
showing vibrantly in divine light.

What has landed in your hand –
has always been yours.
There is nothing to hold
And everything to release.

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