A feather falls on your bare chest
Barely sensed
Floats up your neck
Teeny tingles
Tousle trembling goosebump hairs
In a silver daze,
It lands on your lips
Blow it to the sky
(with a barely there breath)
A feather is easily lost
In directionless wind
As in blowing your lungs into another
Misplaced.
Mishandled.
Mistreated.
Mistaken as Useless
“Miss, what is your use?”
Swooshing side
to side
Twirling left-
then right-
She peeps,
“A feather is born to tickle
Just grab me from the Sky”
ROOT OF ROOTS 