I am the Bird that Changes Feathers

I Am The Bird That Changes Feathers

(Written on a Sunday Between Mowing the Front Yard and Mowing the Back)

I am the bird that changes feathers,
bringer of the seed and corn,
filler of the cement pond,
saved for that from mocking scorn.

I am the bird that changes feathers,
at least that's how I think they see
the one who feeds them in all weathers,
winter snows, spring rains, and heat.

I am the bird who changes feathers,
who had twelve jobs by thirty-three,
who had three loves by twenty-seven,
who had eight dreams by seventeen.

I am the bird who changes feathers,
who sings and flies on other’s wings,
but never once has homed in heathers
or left the bounds of gravity.

I am the bird who changes feathers
desiring of the wind on high
ready for the molting season
ready now for wings to fly.

© 2021 Deborah E. Moore, All Rights Reserved

Thinking It Through

What would happen if I did what I want?

If I wrote instead of working (as if writing is just a big bowl of warm blackberry cobbler with ice cream and not actually work).  If I took all the eggs out of the money-must-be-earned-to-pay-these-bills basket and put them in the passion-lives here-but-you might-starve basket.  If I made a dream a priority.

What would happen if I changed the whole shape and tenor of my life?

If I dared to leap.  If I leapt to dare.  If I measured possibilities for joy instead of the risks of coming up short.

What would happen if one time, just one time, I didn’t analyze, consider, ponder, determine potential outcomes, weigh options, choose wisely?  What would happen if I did not prepare words in advance?  What would happen if I tore up the balance sheet I keep for money?  And grudges.  And me-and-you.

What would happen if I dismantled the system I’ve constructed called “How To Get Through Life” and replaced it with a merry-go-round of pink horses and red dragons and blue dolphins?  If I stopped marching to so many different drummers and danced like a dervish instead.  If I laughed more and growled less.

What would happen if I took the painting of the me I have allowed the world to see, covered it in white, and started again?  With brighter colors this time, bolder strokes, a little less Baroque and a little more Impressionism.

What would happen if I did what I want?

I’ll you what would happen.  I’d be living from my heart.