A murder on my mind,
of sassy crows
and silky ravens
drifting in on fresh autumn wind,
a cacophony of caws
and affect.
I spoke of them to you,
certain you had brought them with you
like some confusing charnel house-warming gift,
change on the way
something, maybe many things
dying to make way
as I waited with Christmas-eve anticipation
to see what would be carrion and
what would carry on,
whose bloody blouse Morrigan
would wring out in the river of faithless time.
When you were gone, and then still gone,
I knew the winged mourners had not come with you,
but for you,
and I wondered if it would ever be possible
to forget what I had never known

Looking Up

I have been watching the sky
all my life
standing tiptoe,
leaning gracelessly,
bending artfully, stretching beyond others’ grasp
to find a better vantage point
in a life cluttered with shadows,
dark edifices of doubt blocking my view,
but always looking up;
I have never had much use for dirt
or anything else beneath my feet.

I have been watching the sky
of late,
startled out of anonymous traffic and slipping into
unabashed awe
of clouds described by all poets
and sunsets setting all lovers aflame
wondering at dust and water,
extremes in their perpetual tango
of living patience.