Do you ever remember a story your parents told and look for it years later,
only to wonder if they made it up?
There's a story my father used to tell me when I was sick. Now I can't find anywhere . . . A kind of fairytale about a bird man. If I asked him, he would take a pen and draw a picture of the bird man in the story.
The bird man had this problem. You see, he plucked his feathers out. Why? Nobody knew for sure.
But there were three possible answers.
One, he was an artist. It was only by pulling out his feathers that he could weave them into a beautiful tapestry that told the story of his life.
Two, he was a scientist. It was only by taking out his feathers and examining their structure that he could understand how he flew.
Three, he was man. It was his nature to tear himself apart one feather at a time so he would never soar too high and would always live close to the ground.
In any case, according to the story, we descended from the bird man. That's why we still dream of flight and angels.
This week’s poem: Return of the Grievous Angel
3 hours ago