A tiny fluff feather in a box of eggs
Causes me to pause
A thread connects
Like a story, like a winding road
The actual with its roots
Its backward tale:
Disconnection, the ill of today
Is suspended for a moment
As I stare at six eggs, one feather
In my sunlit kitchen.
Light flooded, rich
Suddenly mysterious and magic.
The eggs will soon be cracked for cake
The feather whispered away
From thankful fingers and the window
Like a prayer
Caught by the wind, on again.