The crows are closing the door to heaven.
Their beaks are empty and aching to hold a single grain of sugar.
The dead are always the last to know;
long after day is gone they look for the light in a Van Gogh.
Our hearts are a lot like theirs: music of an old tribe, prophecies from the stone head.
May we be told in earnest we are sick so the healing can begin.
In the Old Testament, when Jahve tells the weeping widower to pick sea urchins
to give to his children, He is beset by raging envy that will not leave.
At a construction site in Babel he whispered softly into a clayjug,
and that sound shook the earth and made us mute and hard of hearing.
The door to heaven is not yet closed to you Andy. Remember
the garrulous sound of honey? In it is your story waiting to be told.