As Still as a Word

Sitting in my summer school classroom, before class began, I watched a sparrow speed over a soccer field adjacent to the school building. Moments later, I wrote a poem.

As Still as a Word

The feather
that slips
from the sparrow’s

wing,
turns and loops
wrestling

with a wind
that seeps
through the green

wood rooted
on the meadow’s fringe,
finds its rest

between a height
of wildflowers,
yellow and fragile,

on a cushion of clover,
as still as a word
nestled on a soft page.

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