White and Silver Feathers

White and silver feathers float over the water.
They drift together, stuck to the surface,
never free. I must pick them away
the way petals are picked from daisies.
The Earth is tucked into a blanket,
warm and comforting, but also dark,
and white and silver feathers drift down.
They land on my lashes like thick snowflakes
and I hold them in the palms of my hands.
They're light and soft to the touch; pure. 
These feather flakes, these silver threads,
these memories that tickle my nose,
are the droppings of restless little birds
that, with their belly feathers wet,
entered Heaven, never to return to me,
never to nest in my feeble skeleton,
never to weep again.
 

Rovva

QC

YWP Alumni

More by Rovva

  • Eleven Years

    For eleven years, I've been a part of the YWP community. I started when I was 11 years old and I went by my old name back then. I used to publish my work here all the time, but much of my publishing has now moved to my university.

  • A Nine-Year Journey

    For nine years, I've been a part of YWP and for nine years, I've felt seen by this community. Even as I've grown up, I've watched new young writers come and share their thoughts, emotions, and stories.
  • Beaming writer

    In sixth grade, our class had a show-and-tell every week,
    and every week, a small handful of students were selected to participate in the next one.
    As I was selected, anxiety kicked in.
    I wasn't really proud of anything.