A feather,
immaculately white,
with a hint of black at the edge,
incongruently shaped like a sword,
was lying orphaned on the third step,
as I descend.No one noticed it.
Or, what is there so special,
they would have thought.
I stopped to pick it up,
on an instinct, softness prompted,
or perhaps a wish waiting there,
far off in the dark corridor of mind,
a need badly felt,
while rubbing against,
rough edged time;
is it hope of a possible chance
of a caress. With a smile I turn,
serendipity starts its game then,
at that moment one least expected it.
No, I am wrong in saying that,
that moment was indeed ripe,
then only the meaning of the word
gets justified.
She was looking at me,
standing on a step, arresting her ascent,
transfixed, looking at the feather too, now and then,
as if it is a quill immersed in liquid magic,
I hold to write, something she would,
spell out, in a moment.
"Tell me" I turn playful,
sensing her mood in that glowing moment,
so rare,we share, that has a hidden significance,
I was certain.
"That's the feather I dreamt last night" she stutters.
We feel the spell of serendipity,
binding our hearts at that moment.
0O0