The Molt

There is a time
Of the season
To get your feathers back
The time will come
Being so ordained
It’s what you need to live

Plumes have gone and calamus too
From the season past
Sloughed off and molted
In the late summer’s sun
From such wear and pluck
They soared and served
And then they fell
With no great finality
Dropped here and there
Curiosities on fields and forest floors

And for a moment of a month
There was not much left to fluff and bear
Except scruffy ruffs
And the drabness of what remains behind
Near naked from this certain shed
No shame for how things are intended to be
Such revelations

Near nakedness will soon yield
To rebirth and revival
And show you true,
Now fully fledged
And your coat of many colors.


-Thanks to the Zombies