Feathers

When I was younger,
I would often peer
towards the gaping sky
In search of birds.

When they fretted, many feathers
would unhook themselves,
And tumble down,
Into my open hands.

Many times, they'd fail to land,
But I'd bend down and grasp
Them anyway, hoping
It wasn't dirtied.

Now, upon boarding a train,
One riddled with passengers,
One carrying my suitcases,
I looked up once more.

There was a great hawk,
Soaring above me, taking hold
Of my eyes, making sure
They didn't stray.

Then, flying away from my sight,
It followed the winds.
One feather came loose
Then a couple more.

One landed on my old home,
Another on the school.
Two dotted the playgrounds,
I used to laugh upon.

A friend's home found one,
A teacher's too.
The old pool, the new one,
And the library's front doors.

Perhaps one day,
I'd make my way back,
Stopping to look,
Sitting down and sighing.

Perhaps one day, I'd
Find my old home,
My old school,
My old friend's and teacher's homes.

Perhaps one day, I'll
Stop and visit the two old pools,
The old playground,
And the library's barricaded old doors.

Perhaps one day,
I'll stop at each of these places,
Gaze at them, and pick up the feathers
That were once dropped.