The Folding Fan

Painting by Jim Strong

The Folding Fan


The wild beauty of an eagle,
once born to virgin sky,
now held in a sacred fan.

Beaded feathers
stiffen the grasp,
the fingers that curled
to ease the cold soul
but let the agony tear,
for the heart will weep
all the same.

Never again is life made vivid
or for who else the kind warmth?
Maybe this I know,
that it is for the dying,
whose ending breaths I hear not,
as the wisdom
will come no more;
only to grave,
olden with age.

Eternity flies now on the wings
of the gone soul,
never to be seen.

Listen,
a drum I hear, distance, yet
it's from the folding fan.
The preying bird of death is waiting,
calling.


Grey Cohoe