Fate of the Feathers
Two feathers on the floor.
Water. Oil.
Remnants of the factory that once was.
In the puddle,
you see the sky through a fallen roof.
The factory is a museum now.
A museum to abandonment and neglect,
to what happens to all of us
when we are left alone too long
without care and feeding and maintenance,
without love.
You take it in. Alone in the factory.
Somewhere in the rubble, you hear the wind.
Water drips. More erosion.
You breathe in the rust tinged air, grateful
you have a home close at hand,
and her love saves you from the fate of the feathers,
from becoming yourself a museum,
or worse, a ruin.
About this poem.
I cannot tell you how grateful I am for the woman I love, my wife. I cannot tell you, but I keep trying.
The picture was taken at Mass MoCA in Adams, Mass.
Tom
