Black feathers and ink strokes forming a spiral on a pale watercolor background

ice raven falters at the last
unmoored yet discerning
he calls out to her

harsh croak in a winter wind
nearly buried in snow
hear me, bind me

Ashara, first of us,
curator of stories
flash your favor at me

I am your poet

at the end of all that lives
on the razor wire fence
hinterlands of hypothermia

she swirls with the eddying
singing a song assembled
by glaciers and sea

sun rays through black clouds
kissing waves, scattering her
glittering essence – Ashara

transforms what was once
immutable and inaccessible

buried and caged by phases
caught up in blue shifts
untouched by sunlight and hope

I am a string of words
dark drips upon the landscape
of this once pregnant loam

call me to you, my love
my form follows your mouth
shapes pouring from your lips

let us roam this world forever
finding freedom on the wing
of your proclamations and provocations

that make this earth spin