Vesper for Crows

Autumn proclaims her love in an unconventional embrace.

Your garden began to suffocate, and so, the roots of your dying tree

reached for the sun in an inverted sky.

A burning, momentary vesper, softly kissed your tree goodbye.

At dusk, you surrendered your poppies to me, and ventured off alone.

In your absence,

the crows etched your name onto every leaf

In hopes that when the wind carried them away

At dawn, you might find your way to me.

Yet, still I called for you like a kettle on a stove,

Brewing tea from the dried petals in your garden.

I pressed my lips to a silver chalice,

And it felt as though I were kissing you once more.

When my fingertips punctured the barren soil beneath your land,

When your roots intertwined in the gaps of my hand,

When your branches took hold of my elderly skull,

When the crows etched your name on my old tarnished bones,

At daybreak, the birds will know that you had found your way home.