It's Still Life

The Old Woman and the Crow’s Gift

The old woman holds the crow’s going-away
gift in her hand.
It’s joy. It’s love in her hands,
and she tucks it into her apron pocket—
right between:

a wilted dandelion (for wishes),
three pocket-lint stars (collected accidentally),
the ghost of a peppermint (still vaguely sticky).

“Thank you, my little light,” she hums,
though the gift is really from:

the robin (now composing Thank You: The Musical),
the crow (planning CAW-NFLICT RESOLUTION SERVICES),
the worm, pushing a pebble and a secret,
and the not-hers cat,
loafing on the porch
like a sunbeam with opinions.

The old woman spreads wishes on all:
“May your joy be as stubborn as dandelions,
as bright as stolen spoons,
and as technically catless
as a life needs to be
to stay interesting.

And if you do find a purring shadow
following you home someday?
Well.
Some loopholes
are meant to be loved.”

The old woman adds another
to the List of Unwritten Rules:

Never trust a cloud
that won’t share its rain,
and always let the crow
have the last bite.