Out there, where the crow caws
And the tree line meets the sky
I will make my winter home
When I come to die.
Blending with astral swirls
In blizzards of white light
I will shed familiar skin
And settle in the night.
Let others takes my possessions
I give them all away
To free me from encumbrance
As I ready for that day.
I leave behind endeavor
And the life-work of my hands
The whole of it unfinished
Abandoned where it stands.
Out there, where the crow caws
And the tree line meets the sky
I will make my winter home
When I come to die.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Where the Crow Caws
Posted by The Dashboard Poet at Tuesday, February 02, 2010
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