Copyright © 2002 Bob Dornberg
At the moment you asked me to compose
a poem for your mother, for your dying
mother, I watched a cloud of frightened crows
explode from an elm's halo, hundreds of wings
flying. Living, breathing origami
reinventing itself in the morning sky.
I've struggled with that sight. What could it mean?
Was there some static truth in their sudden flight?
I've decided this much. It's okay to die
without apologies, as long as there are
minutes in our mundane lives when we fly
above ourselves into the beauty of nature.
It stands to reason that your failing mother
needs only the grace of this significant other.
Kevin D. Sulzberger
Copyright © 2002
Kevin D. Sulzberger tells us that this is essentially his first publication.