She could have made a different choice—
Her blood parts, that is, her bone parts, parts
With complicated names, syllables hugging
Packages of sound on the siding of language.
Anyway, the crow turned black
From the heat of the brand he carried
In his beak, and she was the white-hot ash
As she bent to the flame of creation.
I am barely strange enough to imagine
What this whiteness means to your throat. I
Haven’t the slightest idea what makes the blue
Jay jay, and the nuthatch want to see the world
And yet, here we are, functioning.
Something gave the spider web and the lean
Coyote his yip and yowl, and me, it gave me
Thumbs, and lines creasing longer every time I laugh.
It seems we just can’t help being beautiful.
Like something smaller than our thoughts
Dreamed the colors of leaves, and the splash song
Of water so vast, we could only stand in awe.
Nothing to do about it. Nothing to fix.
Your little patch of white
Reminds me of snow.
©2019 by John Berry
John is a poet, healer, carpenter and wedding officiant living in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. John hosts a number of open mics in the Va., West Va. area, finding the spoken word to be every bit as fulfilling and essential as the writing.