Poem By Kurt Philip Behm
A pure white feather floats silently towards the ground.
As it lands, I pick it up,
and rest it gently in the palm of my hand.
Perhaps it's a delicate fragment from an Angel's wing,
possibly, a token of heavenly love,
or maybe, I see it as my own delight in a gentle white feather.
But as my eyes alight on this fragile plume,
my spirit lifts,
and I have a feeling
that my Guardian Angel is near me,
and is ever watchful.
I believe this perception will always stay with me,
and each time I glimpse a pure white feather
I will offer thanks to my
© Ernestine Northover