The Crow or Your Mother's Death

Your sympathy came crisp and tart
as a November McIntosh
and made me wish I bore a message
more palatable than death.

I looked into your eyes
searching for a glimmer of your soul
but sure as silence
what I found was mother-dark:
a crow pecking
at its own reflection
in a pool of midnight rain.

I hunted your borders
for a whisper of grief.
After all
she had been your mother.
But you rubbed your little finger
against your thumb
as if you'd rolled the dregs
of something finished
to toss aside in
uncut autumn grass.

Your anger welcomed her going.
You shifted your weight
and lifted your arms
to wave a final goodbye.
But in the branches of your body
the crow settled in
pecking, pecking.

From A Hermit Holds My Heart
Ellen Porter
Benetvision