crow woman

like laughter, her.

as if crows were
her feather, her
wells of twilight
as sight, eyes
the sea has
yet to match
for color or
depth.

what i found there,
within that
mystery, mist
and fury
of fire
passion, action
as wisdom
and wisdom
is her
freedom.

i have no
claim upon knowledge
of love, save
what i know
of her, her
laughter, a
feather.

it goes with words,
though none
are adequate,
lest the language
of crows
be deciphered.

these are reasons
to recognize
some gifts come
unwrapped, given
as they are
to the rest of us:
without pretense
and simply
what the world
needs
more of.