knotted wings of crows
with scarce strength
rise into rain,
below vegetation
burnished by fall
listens to the calls,
damp rooted trees
in eroded soil
cover to our
consummation,
revisited after twenty
years,
as one we move
our lives wove a story,
origin in these fields
birth from these fields
as cells would watch
these fields and woodland,
a last exhalation,
we would not return
an act of memory
physical and intricate
framed in the cortex
for tomorrow
Sunday Whirl 119
velvetmedia 