Cheryl Gilbert

The Crow

The young girl there,
in spring sun and blossom rain, she
sees the crow but does not care—
is greater than crow, or thinks she is.
She sees, but does not heed, sense
flung senseless in the weeds.
She knows that black tail feathers
are the lack of color and air.
She is content to let petals sit
in her lovely honey hair.