All night the ravens
releasing
a black crying.
They seem to hold worlds
we can never touch.
Something akin to wisdom.
Not perfection.
That doesn’t have any life in it.
It’s the woods where the breathing
moves
where Night
well, you know.
At some point you have to come back
to your own house.
All the spells of the others
you have to leave them
even the apple
the old witch gave you.
You’re not going to wake up
to salvation.
You know that by now.
But inside
where the cupboards are filled with the familiar
where loneliness languishes in narrow beds
here
there is something
you can build with.
There isn’t any choice about where you start.
It’s always the beginning
small and limited as it seems.
One rose in a cup,
the mouse that’s been eating the cereal,
laundry muttering in a basket.
After that i can’t say.
The woods are dark,
here is the gate
i have not gone beyond.
Yet here too
i have whispered
i am not afraid
and it is my own amazement
crying me to sleep.
