The old tree,
he knows;
but she will never tell.
It does not have the words
in acorns or roots.
Shapeless birds still flit at sunset.
Only the raven sits still
and looks back
If I look to the west
the sun blinds me,
setting slowly.
Maybe it’s better to turn around
and see the starlight come.
The road out from the graveyard is broken.
The gate is fixed fast,
but ajar.
Children are playing outside.
A flock of ravens flies north.
It is still light
And the stars
Are out.
-- Jan 4, 2012
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