Bird Feathers In My Coffee

The dusty trail of high noon lingering on my lips

Itches a tantalizing quadrant of my mind,

Producing a single question:

Where would I go if I had wings to take me?

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Would I find myself floating above Paris,

Wafting on the breath of day-old pastries?

Perhaps I would hover above the ocean,

Stare at the horrendous expanse of nothingness below.

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If I had wings secured to my back

How unstoppable I could be!

The world would pass below my tucked up feet

And at long last, I could travel free.

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But what of the bird resting on my shoulder?

What of the gentle preening,

The careful expressions of love

And the softness of feathers supported with down?

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What of the bird feathers in my coffee?

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They would dissolve into the ether.

Nothing would remain but dark, swirling drink

Tepid against my lips.

And my travels would be tinged gray.

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If I could fly, I would have never flocked to the friend

Whispering in my ear and cuddling against my neck.

The novelty of flight dragged me towards them,

The birds with their mystical ways.

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If not for the novelty of flight, the difference between feathers and hair,

I'd have never let my limbs grow heavy or watched as my arms

Solidified into the branches of a tree.

I would have run in terror as roots grounded me into the earth.

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They sprouted from my toes, from the dirty bottoms of my walking feet,

And slunk into the woodwork of this ancient house.

Bark crept up from my ankles, stiffened my legs and poured reason

Into the whimsical corners of my mind as he sat on my shoulder.

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I was never meant to fly but to hold still and dip my toes in the dirt.

To drink black coffee splashed by loose feathers

And become a home, a safe haven for the flighty,

For a friend who needs a warm, quiet place for a nap.