White Peacock

My sleeping mother

has almost dissolved

into contours of the

brown, puffy recliner.

Her delicate skin cups

hollows of her face;

her thin legs emerge

and hide in red plaid

blankets. Mom's fragile

hair is gathered into

a ponytail; like the '50's

teen she never was.

Her radiant beauty had

flourished years before,

in 1940's, when high

school boys tussled for

her attention. As I look

at mom, I think, "What 

is the most beautiful

thing I took her to see?"

And I remember the

white peacock...

A white peacock

in formal garden

walks with plumage

taut. He looks for

world's center; divines

its power spot.

The peafowl rotates,

loosens robes and

tremulates dazzling 

strands. His feathers

rise in incandescent 

curve, then as shooting

stars conversing, then

as Milky Way's tufted fan.

He shutters to align his

beauty and sets waves

in air that females feel.

Mother and I witness

this Passion play in

silence. The peacock

flies to tree branch

where his corporeal

gown settles down 

to mere spirit. I pick

up a tail feather

abandoned on lawn:

an attenuated spar;

o luminous wand!

Laura Stickney 2022

Notes:

tremulates-- vibrates

incandescent-- shining brightly

Passion play-- a spiritual drama

corporeal-- of a material nature

attenuated-- tapered

spar-- a crystalline mineral

photograph by Getty Images