This feather lay glowing early on the dew-drenched grass.
Close by, another feather stood like an arrow
between the blades of grass.
Looking at this shaft-less flighted arrow,
I struggled to remember;
was it,
*"The sped arrow and the spoken word can never be re-called."
How is it one feather floats harmlessly to the ground
whilst the other is capable of
embedding itself?
How is it so many words whirl around us everyday,
most to leave us unmarked
whilst some will pierce us with meaning,
sometimes to our harm, some times to our healing?
Be Blessed
*On searching for an accurate quote, I find this version,
fuller and even graver than the one I thought I knew.
“Four things come not back:
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