Nevermore

About Prometheus,

Not all things combust this way.

The will with wings

plies the sky same as our rows are sown, 

the bird does not always

Fall for it,

and never sweats it. 

The Raven, not Michael nor Quoth

Wingnut, whose pine cabin home was hewn

down in front of mine-by a giant crane

now moves from Ficus to Loquat to Mexican Fan

Palm and gets around others-his heritage gone-

Well, I watch him still,

He plants trees in the front yard.

I watched him with his will 

balanced at 2 o’clock rest,

Perched fifty feet up high 

toward the end of a silver branch

when he notices me

watching Him.

He cocks his head, his eyes drop 

to tiny me,

He lifts his left leg dramatically, 

talon spread wide and up,

his eyes fixed toward me,

Sure he was about to pivot

to change 

the view-

Instead

He fell,

He tucked his wings to his sides and plummeted,

He fell.

My heart rattled,

Hart Crane.

And just when I could no longer see him, 

he rose.

Wings wide, he climbed with his will,

promptly doing a flyby down 

the empty driveway.

About intentions, 

Prometheus knows nothing of arson

He can only carry on

hot air to rise-

besides, 

Legends live too long, 

Atlas lifted all but his eyes,

too busy with the world and all

Fire and Friction.

Meanwhile, I am learning 

to lean on the wind,

like the crane floating offshore

feeling 

this is not falling.


Artwork By Kawanabe Kyōsai (Artlino archive) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.