A Feather in Winter
by Michele Morin
“The feather flew, not because of anything in itself, but because the air bore it along.
Thus am I a feather on the breath of God.” Hildegarde of Bingen
Sister Hildegarde knew
we are all
“feathers on the breath of God,”
and it’s an image I
struggle to live toward.
on this particular January afternoon,
time-bound and booted,
my feet crash through snowy crust
in a jolting cadence
as I follow my granddaughter’s delighted experiments with
cold and gravity.
Making not a dent in the snowy crust,
she travels like a feather,
her tiny lightness encased in a purple snowsuit.
Puffy and buoyant,
it catches her whenever she tumbles,
unfazed as the falling flakes that
land on our hats and our lashes.
Lord, may I, too, learn
to hover, held
on your breath,
in blessed lightness.