Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

crows seem to be the first to find it
sometimes it bubbles up
from under a rock 
or out of the side of a hill 
the crows know where it is
they feel it when it come to the surface

she was sick she had been sick 
for a year maybe more
she would set in a wheelchair looking
out the window watching the birds
while she waited for her next treatment

in the ironwood tree sat three crows
they called to me as I walked to the door
I had silk roses for her 
she could not stand the sweet sent 
of the real ones anymore

the crows flew away as
grandfather set in the lobby
in a salt-back chair 
his wet face in his hands

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