The Fall
A single dove-white feather
sinks from sky's wings.
It rocks to the steely cradle of wind,
lazily approaching solidity,
before grazing the ground,
upon which it clings,
suckling on soil,
browning.
sinks from sky's wings.
It rocks to the steely cradle of wind,
lazily approaching solidity,
before grazing the ground,
upon which it clings,
suckling on soil,
browning.
♠ ♠ ♠
Just something I wrote quite fast. My previous poetry professor told me that is not the way to write poetry and that I will run out of things to write about. While I tried her method of revision, I think my work feels more finished this way and less shaky. I now write a paragraph before composing it into a poem, however.