Buried Poem Triptych 3

I. Crow Friends 

I haven’t made a crow friend yet
but I’m trying. They say corvids
will bring those that feed them
treasures, tiny shiny thank yous.
I spy each dash of trash on my stoop
like it were stashed under a spangled
douglas fir in my living room.
But if anyone asks, I’m doing well.

II. Palms out

What I have decided about you
is that you are hoping
that I haven’t made up my mind
if you are a true crow, a friend
of our family yet.
I have decided. I say,
what a dream to put faith in.
What a waste of a dream.

“But,” you will say,
raising a quavering note
in your voice like cracked scales.
I step away. I’m not interested.
You by your trying is suspect enough.
We have had endless and faithless
of what they of your kind say.

We hold our own ways pricelessly close.
Corvids will bring our dead and our children
to those lands that feed them,
spacious and radiant, suns for us.

You strew treasures, tiny shiny
worthless measures. You expect ‘thank you’s?
“But.” You drop the word before me.
I will not even spend time considering
its worthlessness. You spill
tears like coins. You tell me anything.
Now I say “but.” You may be a spy.
You throw each dash of words
like they are of worth. On my stoop?

Here, I live like it was up to me,
one of the few, the expenses
of my kind stashed under the broken
promises of a spangled douglas coin.
We carry our children and our dead,
we mark our ways by maple and fir.

In my eyes you are the one not
up to the task of incredible living.
Give room. For once in your life. Give room.
I return your watery words, “but.”
If anyone else is coming, tell them
to take their shadows off again.
Each one of you asks the same kind
of blank spaces, faintly traceless.
I’m doing for my own kind.
A fir for myself. Mark me well. 

III. [Shiny, Worthless Treasures]

What
          you are hoping

I have decided
                      to put faith in.
         a waste of a dream.

  But
         a quavering note
                   like cracked scales

                           is suspect enough.

                     you        say.

We hold              pricelessly close
                    our dead and our children

spacious and radiant           for us.

You       treasure         shiny
worthless                            thank you’s

                   spend time considering
          worthlessness.
                       You tell me
              I                  may be a spy

                      of worth

               I      like it
                           the expenses
                                          the broken
promises of
                our children and our dead,
we mark our ways by maple and fir.

In my eyes you are not
                               living
                         your life

                            tell
        shadows
        you ask
   blank spaces,
                for
A                   self.