Feathering a Poem
I stand before my bedroom wall Paintbrush in hand. I’m not a painter, I tell Mom She insists, You need to feather it. Feather what? The paint, use the brush, feather the paint. Your grandfather was a painter, Not just of walls, But of landscapes and people. He’d paint scenes, He did one of Gallipoli, A doctor came by, saw his brother Took the painting as payment. But I’m no…













