It's Still Life

More About The Old Woman Without a Cat

The Old Woman With No Cat and the Crow

the old woman with no cat
sits in her wicker chair,
spring sunlight
warming her bones, arranged

like kindling
waiting for warmth from a match.

a crow hops across the lawn,
its feathers oil-slick black,
a hole in the world’s brightness,

one foot, then the other—
then it stops, cocks its head,
and looks at her with the neglect
of a rusted key.

I know you. the crow blinks,
and the old woman shifts in her chair,
groans like a tree
deciding whether it should fall.

she offers the crow
no shiny trinkets, no apologies,
only this:
her stillness, which is not patience,
but the slow erosion of hurry.

the crow flaps onto the fence.
it does not say goodbye—
goodbyes are for creatures
who believe in later.

the sun warms her ribs, and
somewhere, a cat (not hers, never hers)
is howling for a fight.

the old woman closes her eyes—
the crow was never hers either,
but for a moment,
they shared the same secret:

time is an unreliable guest.

More silliness written for Writers’ Digest Poem-a-Day Challenge Day 2 “From where I sit…”