MY TOOL
A feather from a bird,
Is so light.
As I hope, are these words,
With it I write.
Found by a pond,
On a summer night,
With bird, still in flight,
In the setting, sun light.
I hear songs, in the air,
Over the golden rays, in the pond.
That nature has prepared,
For a soul, in disrepair.
A softness, I find here,
As in a childs’ delight,
When they are let, to daydream,
And a love, comes into their being.
Each movement of the hand,
Tells of a flight,
This feather, took over land,
And dreams of that day.
I have been given this tool,
From heaven above,
To scroll these thoughts,
Into words from a bird.
Larry Bachman
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