American Crow

So near a starved/sick American crow,
And spastic flaps of both her frosty wings— 
Perhaps a sign of life-force in passing—   
Beneath shade, of huddled slouching willows,
(that seemed concerned as if the young bird's folks),  
I stood, my back against the gnarled barks.
Unread are rimes God Almighty's composed.

Awash in flurry here was I at once 
In spry bodiless feathers, iced, rainbowed—
Perhaps those of a violet-green swallow—   
Tender as tulip petals, dewed berry; 
Or voiceless flame long sapped, and sewed long slow 
Into the seam of dark, the graceful corpse; 
by glacial gusts anatomized, unmourned. 

Voice

I crammed the words in tight iambic feet.
"Speak in feet or hold your peace," so addressed
me then, a voice like mine‒but one distressed.     
I speak in pain, of loss and rage that eat
my bones, at night; each day, fatigue my heart,
they twist my soul...and drain my love‒"Silence!"
said the raising voice relentlessly, roared,
"I guard your heart and soul.  This pain you'll not
contain without my aid, your rage impairs
all your sense, so fear emotions unchecked...."

Silently out the words I let, freely roam, 
atop my pain galloped we past meadows in rain,
the air had bled seventeen quarts of cherry tart, 
the cawing ink (heaven-spilled, erased by time),  
directed me, my face (tear-soaked), home.