Metaphor.
I really meant to write metamorphosis .
The air today was so pure;
not a sound penetrated the sun's rays.
We walked uphill from the warm rock and talked
about the walls that used to surround the pastures.
I stopped to admire the sunburst orange feather,
clapping its wings in front of our feet.
I would like to think it was bowing down, or curtsying.
It floated high to the naked tree tops,
kissed the small red buds, and
glowed in the beam of April sun.
If you wanted to move faster,
you could ride the white bike I saw in my dream
and tell me why your father gave you that color,
what he wanted to redeem?
