“Plucked Feathers & Small Hands”
A poem by Shelly Moore

I can find beauty in almost anything.
Finding stunning artistry within broken things.
I’m programmed to look within and see the soul,
Of all the discarded, so-called ugly, cast-aside-ables.
I find unimaginable beauty in everyone.
Even, and sometimes especially, those whom society has cast aside and shunned.
I sense their light within, even when dim,
And I’ll pray for them, I’ll pray for them.

When I pass over critters who’ve been mercilessly crushed,
By the cruel passing wheel of a car or truck,
I’ll ask from deep within my very soul,
For Mom Nature to gather theirs up and rebirth them again whole.

Yet when I speak within my own delicate mind,
When I gaze into a mirror – into this reflection of mine,
I simultaneously say and think nasty, horrid, abusive things.
Without knowing what I’ve done; slowly clipped this girl’s beautiful wings.
I spew putrid words I’d dare never even think of another.
Subconsciously repeating all that’s been said to her by others.
Repeating what that boy said to her at fifteen,
That she’s not very pretty, but her ass looks decent in jeans.
Repeating what adults said to her as a child,
That she’s needy, and too much, and has crooked teeth when she smiles.
Repeating how others made her feel when she was so small.
Carrying the generational trauma of those who had no idea at all,
That they’ve passed down thousands of years of struggle and pain,
To a little girl whose soul burns as bright as a flame.

So I’m making a promise to that burdened little girl,
The girl who’s feathered wings had been slowly plucked as she navigated her world;

I promise to be your number one fan.
I promise to always be there to hold both of your small hands.
When the world feels too scary and too lonely and too wild,
I’ll be the one who’ll always be there, without fail, for that child.

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