Literature

Someone stuck a dropped raven
Feather in a pot of dirt
For decoration, maybe,

Or for commemoration,
Perfectly upright, quill first.
So there it is, sun or rain,

Buried in snow all winter,
Hasn’t toppled over yet—
Feather like a ruler,

Like a stake among the plants.
You can stare and stare at it,
Draw inferences from it.

Maybe the raven still lives.
Maybe the feather will stand years.
Detritus, this universe.