Between gray trunks
and empty limbs
a large crow glides
on steady wings—
and lifts this tired,
leaden heart
until my pulse
is made of soar,
my flesh composed
of nothing more
than willingness
to rise—and for
a buoyant beat
or six, I sail,
I sky, I swoop, I air,
I rhyme with life,
until the mind
twists freedom into fear.
It’s no surprise
I tumble then,
again a tired
and leaden thing.
But somewhere in
the weary blood
still reels the ecstasy
of wings.