Crow Time

You live in my heart
but now
you're a victim of crow time —
struck dumb by green patches
fenced in by brown & gray —
and by the mystery of ashen urns.
Sky pure black, sparked by dove stars
and the moon is a sliver balancing
a firm ball of light
on its thin point — &
I'm reminded of your simple black hair,
sparks hidden in its strands.

You live in my eyes,
but still
you're a hostage to crow time —
lost amid men with broad shoulders
and women who live up to men's lies —
and until you notice your own smile,
you're doomed to servitude suffering.
Some trees with minor leaves
frame the cemetery evening,
but even now I can't help
thinking of you, thinking
of your warm woman's heart beating
like wind-blown love.

You live in my hands,
which are still scented with crow time —
though you may be far or
you could be across the midnight street —
and here where silence is an answer
I could think of you
studying my smooth hands
or weeding the wild moss on my chin.
Trees, stars, moons —
all the lies of romantic bleeding —
must have betrayed me.
Now you've gone.

You live in the memory of your head
pressed against my hair —
only the honor of crow time
could tempt us apart.

15.March.1980 (with some changes)

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This one's for Dr. O and seattlecrows.

Idée d’jour

Truth, in matters of religion, is simply the opinion that has survived.
– Oscar Wilde, writer (1854-1900)

Hard to Live With

Mandolin blues. What a concept.