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The Thing with Feathers

"the thing with feathers" is what Emily Dickinson called Hope 

But methinks it's made of rocks you soared above

 and then swooped down 

   allowed them to dazzle you

applying the precision vision of a hawk 

with the time to scour scree fields

on a hike one sunny September

raising up broad shoulders that bear profound loads 

hoofed piles of rocks down a mountain.

and that one rock, especially jaggy and with just a sprig of goat hair

so it could remind us

what was I supposed to remember? 

Bare shoulders? Cashmere? 

Mountain goats or a summit?

Views or descents?

But that wasn't it.

Recognition not yet flashing...

Was there a note on the back of my hand,

a thread tied 'round my finger,

an Expo marker phrase on my mirror?

Perhaps there was nothing but a golden glint

in your eye

the memory of which

was light as a feather

with wisdom of 1861

or 2005

a dog ear in time 

creasing the distance 

bending across an event horizon

 to now

2020

a time that confounds

all expectations.

And yet?

Hope--or perhaps the trust that   it       will       all       be      okay--  is a rock

solid as this friendship,

especially when we are

shooting the shit in a room.

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