A found poem ( or two ) and thin places …

What it is to fly – Mary Giles Edes

Two downy feathers
pressed against the pane.
One tip – unattached –
is moving
upward,
trembling
in the almost breeze
of cool gray morning.
It seems to feel for the air  –
reaching,
remembering
on some cellular level
what it is
to fly.

Last evening I heard
the hard slap
and looked around the room to see
what solid thing had fallen
from the common clutter of
day’s end.
Seeing nothing
I turned out the light.

Over morning coffee and
loneliness for God
I saw them –
whispery reminders at the
almost invisible
boundary between
flying and falling, between
inside and out, between
life and death.

And another poem …

down to death, Mary Giles Edes

i watch the leaves
dance
down to
death
grace
filled
floating
lifting even
as they
fall

no
heaviness
nor
grief
nor
clinging for
long
longer
life

only
this
tender
timeless
release
into
it.