Mary E-A. K. Remaniak Poetry

A feather falls from the heavens
And is plucked up by the chubby hands
Of a child, who takes it home
And stores it in her treasure box.
A dream that is spun,
A tale is woven around the flighty thing
Of where it might have been
As it traveled the world.
At least it could be blown about by the wind
And did not rely on it's own power.
Unlike the storyteller who weaves the web
With magic paint as the story unfolds.
You can be the feather,
You can join her in the dance
Around the world, the child is told.
She believes...takes a chance on faith
And floats above the earth.
For a moment, she is free
Until the whispers of the dream are heard
And the harsh reality is known.

Poet: Mary E-A. K. Remaniak