Poet 11586

Feathers And Brine

If I was nothing but a wistful raven
I'd still nestle by your windowsill
and listen to the husk of your breath
in the chill
of the morn.
If I were but a feathered wilderness,
I'd still cry you awake
as the sun trickled across the sky,
shake you conscious with a tap
on frosted glass
so you see the night birth
fresh virgin day.
Darling, if I were nothing
but a crooked-winged crow
I'd still fly across oceans
to soothe every sleepless sigh
from your asking lips.