A Year of Poems – Day 74

The tapping cracks at close of day;
crows come to carry cares away.
Beak heaves hard as it lifts the pane.
The glass swings wide, in comes the rain
crusted on crow feet, oozing off,
pooling until the lungs must cough,
creak, break, and weep that final croak,
which like a fire left unstoked,
unkept, unloved will smoke one breath
then breathe no more as if in death;
which is why the crow hops quickly
to the armchair with the sickly
pink fabric faded from the fire
red of summer’s high stacked pyre.
Coming to the chair’s high proud back,
cries with claws dug in, all goes black.
The curtain hangs like smoke in rain;
the breath of the crow fogs the pane.
He flies, leaving the chair behind
but the cares and hopes of a kind
soul, the harbinger cradles close
bearing soul whence all kindness flows.

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