A Murder of Doubts
A crow landed on my table by the bay,
Looked in my tired eyes and asked,
What is the nature of my soul?
Does it grow from my body in lustrous plumes?
Does it stretch for wind when I cross the blue?
Does it grip the arms of wooden beasts?
Does it peck and tear at rotting meat?
Does it blink the light from all I watch?
Does it rise from me in woeful squawks?
What part of me makes me a crow?
What, in essence, is my soul?
The part of you that is the crow,
Is the part, I said, that seeks to know.
It took to the trees, an acorn in its beak.
