Painted Feathers

We find it difficult to start healing again

when the creeping frost lets go, the bitter winds

releasing their grip on gray skies to free the downpour

straining against months of feeble silver linings.

Aren’t flowers supposed to bloom in sunlight?

Yet petals unfurling only fertilize a heavy heart

with insult, for fear of not keeping up with an array

of new beginnings the season has forced upon you.

Promises of growth packed into dirt thaw and turn to mud

under webbed feet, taunting freshly opened eyes

with flight and flowers and a hunger for recovery

previously satiated by full winter moons.

We found it easy to pause healing, to take seasonal

comfort tucked inside a nest of silky down feathers

that made even the sting of silence feel soft and

sweet in its familiarity. It would be safe, to

stay. Healing is blooming and blooming is messy,

an unruly riot of color so violent it paints the underside

of the swan swooping low over blossoms. Healing is more

than pure white wings; we have learned that pristine snow

is only loved from a distance. That cry of color

from a healing swan is the wail of a winter wraith

at last relinquishing its haunt, handing us over

to the invitation of spring songbirds.

We let go now. Our final notes propel us

into open air as we leave the frost behind

to creep through memory instead.