The words mingled in her mind
Swirling, whirling, a golden find.
She raced up to her room,
Praying to find some paper soon,
Grasping, clasping the memory close
Before the lovely lines bid adios.

In a swirl in a frenzy scratched the feather
Upon the little tree bound in leather,
Blocking all sound except the supper chime.
She did not dare to dine
While the revelation remained.

Insistent rang the bell, still did she not come.
Fought she fiercely, struggled strongly,
Wrestling the idea's resistance singly.
A slip, a dash, a tackle down--
'Till at last the battle was done.

Heart beating, heavy breathing,
Slumping to her seat, the wing-
Feather flying with the weary wind.

Her feat was recorded and
The deed by dinner rewarded.
Her mind was done, but then was fed.

-Anne B. Caitlin