A couple and a half years ago, I posted a poem I’d been tinkering with. I saw it again this week as I was going through my notes, and I thought I’d wrench on it some more. The result isn’t profound by any stretch, but I like its music and mystery.
You have me at my word,
vowed the Orphan to the bird.
Or, by Providence I swear,
I will join you in the air,
to beat against the blast
and bereave the ground at last,
and renounce my mortal name
before Earth can lay her claim.
And the envoy’s ebon eyes
belied the brightness of the skies,
though dead winter’s frigid voice
spoke its rime of hopeless choice.
And the Orphan’s mind was cast
to a red morn long since past—
to a mother’s promise made,
and a debt yet left unpaid.
Then, from trying time unbowed,
she turned toward the crowd—
while the raven rose in flight
with his drove of strident night—
and drew countless ages in
through a throat of molten tin.
As the martial mass knelt cowed,
She withdrew Her sallow shroud
and cast Her lace aloud.