The Write Feather

The write feather
in the wind
twirls
on the head of a pin.

The forest sees
through us,
branch light as owls,
dark as a horse.

Takes a big foot
to mark the way
we should go
to water.

The pages here,
heavy as rooted stones,
turn graves into benches,
as is custom.

When the song
breaks from the sky,
sunbeams spell
relief for the wintered.

The invisible smiles
at every visit,
stirs the fire
in our heart.
 

Will SchmitComment