Above my head a hawk dips by the sun
Then drops a feather, as if toward my hand,
Floating down, I remember that one
Spirit, just flown, still sheds her gifts that land
So gently on my soul. A woodpecker’s cry
Pierces my reverie, reminder of the curtain
Death draws down, and memory of her rye
Musings, sharp wit, and kind action
Move me past my mourning of her absence
Into action. For she could not have known
The wealth she gave, in praises of my presence,
Nor how her gifts illuminate my own.
My unknowing mentor helps my voice to sing
And to recognize others that need voicing.
So while I’ve time remaining, I’ll give wing
To fledglings not yet sure of flying.
My own last cry will come, desired or no,
So, for her, I’ll drop a feather as I go.