April 5, 2013

Moving Into Lent

the wind sweeps in from out
crow’s wing brushes whisper across the forehead
they’re falling now
                                    a couple more
            funneled into sluice gates and caught
            before a finality is realized –
every so often you feel the wing brushing close
like a scythe whistling through the air
you wonder what gets harvested
            what blackness
            or searing light
            who the dark becomes
            blinding whiteout     
            and why

is it time
and is all this collateral
or is this a target

a morning is cruel, or it is not
a night is harrowing, or it is not
the world is pain, or it is not
the is and is not of wildly intersecting planes
flashing crazed like the eye blinks

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