The thing about goldfinches is
twice a year
they are molting – 
no, not revolting, – 
forgoing namesake golden plumes,
one by one,
in favor of what is drab 
in pursuit of 
blending in, 
saving energy,
belonging to a flock
until it’s time to 
stand out and be noticed.

Then, after a season of 
somber,
lackluster,
cheerless,
blending,
the gold reappears
one flashy feather at a time
as if the dull and drab
made room – 
no, helped nestle in – 
the unique light 
that shines forth
every now and again.

© Annabelle P. Markey