A white feather,
Blowing through a Target parking lot,
In the desert.
A saucy Irishman once told me,
He found them after his sister died.
They were stuck in grass,
Or doing cartwheels down the road,
Snowflakes from an angel just beyond.
Her death was violent,
Her memory broken,
Peace was offered in each discovery of another
Legend or myth,
Religion or faith,
The feather was shed from an unseen wing,
As an offering to rest the mind, and continue to love.
I peeled the white feather off my windshield,
And slid it inside my wallet.
A hand from the dead on my shoulder,
A whisper in my ear,
Peace be with you,
Squeeze of my hand and release,
See me through.
Who it was
Is my secret to keep.
A smile, a wink,
Go back to sleep.
Prompt 22, Hour 22