White Crows

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 secondhand wings. Outside, the crows lined 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 cherry sun beams and glitter. The echoes of a rainbow are a grand place to live. ,