I like to float with Amy
and ride across the air.
She lets me latch on to
her soft, white, pretty fluff
and go wherever she goes.
Amy is a feather.
She glides by trees, bushes, houses,
front yards with smiling children
playing, laughing, waving at Amy.
They jump to try to catch her
but she’s just out of reach.
Amy is a pretty, floating feather.
The nice, peaceful kind of feather
at the end of Forrest Gump
that always makes me cry
half-happy, half-sad tears
and think about my life.
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