|Jan/Feb 2019 Poetry|
Crows in Wind
No coal to their riotous laughter. They are spilled
ink in the spikes of sycamores.
How they swipe the wild air
with their wings. If you had hollowed
bones you would risk the wild ride
of a sky filled with gilt clouds, contrails.
Instead you accrue the earthbound aches
of a woman in the midst of treatment
or aging or simply a hard day
growing harder because it lacks
the healing grace of stillness and trees.
Ahead, vistas of in-between fill with umber
and ochre, crows' play and
spiral, their daft spell of falling
and your slow-won acceptance
of trouble, a cousin to beauty.