
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
