morning crows

Sometimes, in the mornings, The morning crows don’t sing— Perched and preaching by a loblolly. Breathe in this metanoia, We all live for it. And if the morning crows never reverenced, Sitting at my doorstep, Waiting for my feet to touch pavement, I might’ve deemed you worthy of abasement. But the morning crows chant my indiscretions, To the man in the moon, Too far to touch, too distant to see— So I cannot tell him Of my worries. Fill up this cup with your americano— It’s been so long since I’ve tasted of it. The morning crows fear I will be different When the sun sets And daybreak ends. So I hide in my sleigh bed, Too frightened to tell you That I am revolutionizing myself. The morning crows now mourn the loss of youth. As I settle down to become holy, They sing my death— Heedlessness, Widening your eyes, Sharpening your grin. When I wane once more, The morning crows will say, They told me so. Perched and preaching by a loblolly, I am reclaimed, rosy-eyed. Breathe in this metanoia. We all live for it—