Flash of the Crow
These eyes have laid bare A tendency to drift Among currents of Impalpable impressions of thought, Wherein only the wither’d vestiges Of youthful wings doth abound, Now intermittently aflutter To the last plainchant of the grave warden Resolutely resigned to his own extinction:
A solitary wind meanders on, Too noble for stagnation, But too humble for forgiveness. Every color is uprooted and scattered Along this serpentine path, Until usurped by velvety drops of blackened rain That slowly fill a wooden ladle Perched against a dessicant rock That patiently abides a child’s return.
She once kept post at the entrance To a vale of wonderment- Unconditionally- Where the cackle of children Flourished day and night, freely conceived Amid raucous cavalcades Of homespun instruments, Where artless impromptu anthems Blared possibilities that became harmony And harmony recalled Colorful vingettes Of its own possibility During occasions of tenderness.
From time to time The winds would heed Her strident call to order. And a cluster of buds Would dance their Christening dance As the flocks looked on With amusement. These were the times Her silken essence Glistened the most, Reflecting restless, variegated hues Perpetually seeking flight Back into the womb of the Sun.
One day she left, No sooner than she appeared. The children are now asleep, Hastened to rest By an unbidden hiatus in verse. All that is left to wonderment Is absorbed in a sodden chimera Of beady unblinked eyes And a violent twitch Of a deciduous patchwork coat That glistens no more.
From this abandoned ladle Harmony takes a drink And begins to remember A song from old, But the words escape him.
Art: “Dire Straights” Judith Gebhard Smith