by Melanie Claire Blinn Eulberg
the crows fuss
at each other
in harsh tones from our
spruce of many perches.
Later, their voices subdued
by the roar of a knifing wind
I see them scattered, weightless as leaves
thrust skyward by the blast of a bonfire.
None are prepared for this cruel assault.
I hurry to close tight the windows
and wrap myself in Mom’s sweater
feeling her soft resilience
wishing it for myself.
Gone two springs ago
her loss still cuts
like the sharp