Losing Faith

Thru my bedroom window

I follow glimpses of a world

Much different than the one I sleepwalk through

Most mornings.

Them crows on the desolate branches

Don’t think of themselves as

Doom or death

As they huddle against autumn.

They don’t see themselves as omens of anything –

I lie here feeling silly for all of us.

They seem to know what they’re doing

Where they’re going

Now landing on a wire with

Eight hundred and seventy four

Of their closest chums, leaving me to wonder

Whether this pattern was discussed in the huddle

And though all I see are crooked, boney silhouettes

Against the morning almost-light

With their wraithlike squawking guests

Thru the narrow space where the curtain comes short,

The world is somehow bigger this way and more remarkable

The community they inhabit is more authentic

Than the one I will rise to…eventually –

I imagine all the talking cartoon animals of childhood at once

And wish I could will superstitions into being.

My problem is I can’t stop there –

Before I genuflect, I want to be sure of the outcome

I want to taste the candy without unwrapping it,

To rest on clouds without dying

To know that she’ll love me always

Before I say hello.

.

How lucky is the rabbit

With his foot in the trap?

            

Published on

Dead Snakes

November 2013