Invocation

Old enough to know what little remains
of this land, I approach the edge of a snow-
dusted field with a scattering of meadow-
grass that has somehow managed to pierce
the thin crust of ice with its misshapen
blades that are set in motion by a faltering
wind as if it is attempting to lift each one
in false glister while the world seems
to retreat further into silence including
the house-bound hill, swallowed in
shadow and framed by a mosaic of blue-
lit windows and further below a thinning
woodland where snow’s clustered
on the tips of each branch like bloated
blooms of white making the world
appear somewhat softer than we know
it to be, and one can better sense
the shortness of the day and the weight
of what once was as we prepare for
this evening’s prayers of healing
from a pair of rabbinical crows perched
upon the leafless boughs of nearby trees.

                         ~