Feathers and Petals

Some things are like that… soft, tiny, delicate. And so simply, and irrefutably the way they are- that they transform everything, as they enter attention. Like feathers.. and petals. 

What else exists? What else is meaningful? When a feather is swirling, like a dream in the sky… falling gently upon the earth. 

Isn’t the dirt path transformed altogether.. if one notices the dirt path at all, when a petal has fallen, and lays softly aside? Till you pick it up in your palm… to press between pages when you reach home. 

I have a box of these. Of feathers.. and petals.. of pebbles.. ink on pages…Of raindrops- like earrings from mother…a string of silk, which caught one’s fancy as a child.  A ton of beautiful useless things…for what use are they in the world?

What is one to do with them? With the things that are soft and so irrefutably themselves? The way they are asking nothing, seeking nothing, trying to give nothing either…that they make you wonder- How do they even continue to exist?

And what am I to do? With these magical objects, in my box.. What use are they in the world? They are a world in themselves, to which they are as well a magical door. It is a transient world, ethereal… accessible, but not inhabitable. What does one do, with such a world?

Are they best kept locked away in a box..for most part? Or perhaps if I allow them to fall.. one by one.. into the pit in my stomach.. Will they twirl and swirl… and eventually hit its floor? Filling it up.. slowly.. with a rainbow.. and raindrops.. and gentle violin.. with feathers.. and petals… and useless silk?

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