Francine Prose said, "For now, books are still the best way of taking great art and its consolations along with us on the bus."
Winged Medicine
When the dead crow
was placed in the trash-
a perfect wing stretched
to greet me.
Twisting the appendage like a branch
it broke in my hand.
A gift so powerful
I dropped it to the ground.
Certain on some plain
it was in flight.
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1 comment:
I came by to comment on your St. Blaise poem, and then came across "crowsperch." It's interesting how both these poems touch on parallel universes. St Blaise the universe of memory, and the crow, some other plain. I guess it's one of the mysteries of the spiritual life - more in heaven and earth, Horatio - that the here and now doesn't exist alone. Nice job on both pieces. Re: the assembly line of imperfection - I like to think life is the assembly line of perfection, and when we leave we've been perfected.
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