Night everlasting—ageless ravens hunched
on winter branches. Snow skidding blind windows.
I am alone, the poem flown to the crown
of the tallest tree. No, I am with my
poem; we are cryptic as a raven’s
body, and we’re punctuated by one
black beard. Now we ascend, and I realize—
I was deluded—we are two ravens,
not words—one holding on, one taking wing,
dropping, yes, plummeting, then rising, and
aloft, become counterfeit canticle—
or are we flux, waiting; brilliance, kindled?
In my cottage, the sound of shingles shrugging
off grizzled husks—fresh tumult, croaked motifs.
