The Crafters

Sixty two cockatoo feathers
sorted by shape and size
lie on my workbench
gathered over the summer
from suburban parks and bushlands—
chance finds, on my soccer mom runs.

I crochet spools of jute and lace
into long, flowing vines
knotting in glass and resin beads
charms from broken necklaces,
finishing with the snowy plumes
trailing at the ends.

over the last days of winter
my bohemian dream-catcher fills
with the spirit of white cockatoos
a hoop to filter dreams,
totem of floating feathers.
on the ledge outside my window

a cheeky weaver bird hovers,
a sheepish squint in his eyes—
his nest in the pines progressing
tufts of midnight black
and lawsone drenched filaments
stolen from my hairbrush
glimmering in his beak.

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