by Dorothea Barth ©2008
Wise raven with sad wings that fate has shorn,
Though kindness brought you to your painted home,
From redwood’s towering dome your nest is torn,
No longer its green canopy to roam;
Far lower falls your ripe fruit, freshly seeded,
Soft swinging perch gives injured feathers rest,
While gleaming wingful kin soar unimpeded,
The well-intentioned wingless care their best;
Yet though you cannot soar you still can glide,
Your knocks, your whispers reaching far above,
Where joyful feathered choruses alight,
Serene with songs of springtime’s fleeting love;
Oh raven can you comprehend that I
Have also wished that I might one day fly?
Copyright 2009 Dorothea Barth. All rights reserved.