Barbara Ras

1949 / New Bedford, Massachusetts

A Book Said Dream And I Do

There were feathers and the light
that passed through feathers.
There were birds that made
the feathers and the sun
that made the light.
The feathers of the birds
made the air soft, softer
than the quiet in a cocoon
waiting for wings, stiller than
the stare of a hooded falcon.
But no falcons in this green
made by the passage of parents.
No, not parents, parrots flying through
slow sleep casting green rays
to light the long dream. If skin,
dew would have drenched it,
but dust hung in space like the stoppage
of time itself, which, after dancing with parrots,
had said, Thank you. I'll rest now.
It's not too late to say the parrot light
was thick enough to part with a hand,
and the feathers softening the path,
fallen after so much touching of cheeks,
were red, hibiscus red split by veins
of flight now at the end of flying.
Despite the halt of time,
the feathers trusted red and believed
indolence would fill the long dream,
until the book shut and time began again to hurt.
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