Spring Invocation

Two feet of wing feather

from a turkey in molt,

found me on the mountaintop I haunt.

It was our first truly warm day,

when layers, wool, and woodstoves

could be relegated to memory and bodies

recollected their intrinsic lightness.

Hours before, I crossed a stream

that pushed the raw redolence of thaw

into my winter lungs. And later,

close to the summit,

an acre of leaf litter that had erupted

in mayapples, trillium, and violets

shred the shroud that had separated me

from unendingness.

I planted the calamus of that feather

into the fresh grave of my friend

who was still hanging around

out of reluctance, she said,

to leave her temporal body behind.

No excuses, I replied.

The spirit of the incarnating earth

has gifted you

a wing.

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