Of course, if you drop one,
it flutters towards earth
as an abandoned feather flutters
from a bird’s wing
or a leaf from the tree
that’s relinquished autumn,
anticipating a winter’s nap.
Novels, clunky and lumbering,
plummet as bricks tumble
toward the ground,
bruising, breaking all they whack.
Dramas, twisted complexities,
each a spaghetti mess
of character and stage directions,
tumble as noodles tumble,
ultimately splayed on turf and sod
a tangled, dewy splotch of words.
Perhaps, carry a poem, such as this,
as Dumbo clutched his feather,
as you too will discover
the mysteries of air and flight,
the acumen of all that scouts the horizon.