The hands that cover the face of the leaf
as it grows, gold-ripened, it dries its stem
in a ritual as tree remembered
from when it was young and yearned for its field
where though common would grow mighty as oak
and rustle with the birds in its tree bough
as then it would have a canopy home
where music was made each day before dawn
and every little being shade covered
crows would hold counsel reciting their caws
as they did today when as I listened
Crow squacked in numbers of 2’s, 3, and 4
his refrains returned on two beat patterns
and with one 5 count reached the crescendo
No comments:
Post a Comment