Times are when we feel warmed, saying goodbye.
The rushing moments hesitate, then go
sent willingly, though sad, in single file.
to hear what Crow may say. A whirl upheaves,
the darkened yet-to-be may bring our eye.
Our Crow, on her cold branch, caws out, Hello!
Gray-overcast is this, our midday sky.
like dear-departeds, ushered down an aisle
where candles barely glow and shadows grow . . .
Storm-scattered branches lay about, with leaves
hard-frozen in the grass. I wait, a while,
brings down. Or did, last year. Yet now when I
see sticks and leaves I ask what Crow believes
Hello! she cries. Hello! I cry. Goodbye!
Thoughts from a life filled, to different levels in different bottles, with writing, gardening, antiquing, drawing and painting, musing, musicking, and wine. Vines are the growth of the moment; wines, reflections back on that growth, from a distance. And lines, musical or otherwise, reflect them both.
"A writer and a thinker." -- Katherine MacLean