by Rachelle Bramly
Found fallen by a felled tree–or was it a grave?–
in the curvature of bark shaped like an inverted drum
you waited for me to arrive.
You, plucked by a windstorm
from the tail of an osprey hawk,
twirling and whirling like the seed of a maple tree
came to rest by decomposing branches–
fluffed-up plumage presenting itself
like a permission slip to be sacred, whole, and wild.
You, who traveled in wide-open skies,
a passenger aboard a ship-in-flight,
an appendage shed like autumn time–
now tucked behind my ear.
You are my headdress, my crown:
your plumage is henceforth my own.
I dance to imagined percussion
barefoot in a Gary Oak meadow,
and you dance along.
Rachelle Bramly is a poet, multi-genre writer, performer, and visual artist currently residing on Lekwungen territory (Victoria, BC, Canada). Published in Beside the Point, Pearls, and Orato, Rachelle is inspired by grief, relationships, power, sexuality, food, her own interpretations of earth-based spirituality, and so much more. Follow her on Instagram @oaklune or @rachellebramly.