A single plume of white,
floating on its own reflection,
moving without purpose—
a dreamy illusion of surrender.
It called to mind the hush of sleep,
the soft reflection of our days,
a yielding that restores.
Sometimes vivid as waking life,
always shadowed by questions:
Was it real,
or the play of a restless mind?
A solitary feather of night,
floating toward tomorrow.
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The inspiration for this poem was a single feather adrift. As it floated into the shadow of the Sprague Bridge it was difficult to distinguish the plume from its reflection. I found the gentle movement soothing and realized the parallel to our dreams. And that sometimes separating living from dreaming isn’t that easy. And that’s OK. The truth that it was lived or dreamed is all that matters.
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