© Linda Martin
Chiaroscuro
Crow in the holly bush
outside my world, your plumage
almost concealed, your eye watchful.
Crow:
we both share secrets—
you the secret of the forest,
your birth. Your eye thirsts.
Was
it your eye that stared down
through shadows to light,
following the pine shaft
to
the amber autumnal bed?
Your eye there in the forest
at my birth, when I died?
