Morning ignites a murder of white crows
roosting in the loft of spruce, maple and oak
preening moon and star from death's fertile dream.
Ribbons of sunlight wrapped tight, ancient scrolls
window ajar, enter angels donning broaches of mint
crows perched lightly upon honey kissed bed posts.
In each platinum beak ,they carry one corner of my ghost,
lifted toward an ember of pulsating eternity,
garnished with pearly crown and second hand wings.
Outside, the crows line up along golden cobbled clouds ,
motionless, like a rosary of gleaming white stones
whispering, whirling secrets of galaxies and geodes.
Drifting about, chrysalis brained, rose petal hearted
leaving behind glittering pools of scented hieroglyphs
orange robes enchanting the horizon with lavender mist.
Butterflies released from blue granite chrysalis
riding a stream of cherried sun beams and glitter
the echoes of a rainbow are a grand place to live.