The Ledge of Joy
The wind veers just a moment
down the path pocketing a feather in its folds.
A momentary pasture high on the blue
ledge of joy beams like lasered light from holy ether.
A beaked red thread, plucked
from lint filled pockets deep
in a flower crush of creases,
some underplace in the hidden river.
Untethered, feather and thread settle
open, available as riverlight.
Like diaspora they will not be held or kept
as tokens in a box or dreamt of in color at night.
This poem was first published in Sheila-Na-Gig Journal