Two Poems

Crow wishes he could speak the language of animals but lands on a poem instead

In each of his feathers is another 

Bees flow through him like blood

Mice push their way up the river of his veins

Even snakes swell in his lungs with each breath

When he caws, their stories scatter like shadows 
for the cover of bars or churches

When he flies, their secrets pass by him, 
unforgettable strangers

He’s tried time and again to shape their mouths 

To listen for the one clear note

He waits for recognition to bend
like water around a rock

He is still waiting

***

To my son on leaving to work Alaska’s backcountry

This poem wants to do too much
To mark the map of our lives together 
To hold your face in its hands
Like a bear with its cub
As if it could protect you 
But I’ve watched you long enough
And the world is a wound
From which one does not heal
And it’s time to feel in damp earth
Your body able to respond again
To the cold and limitless light
So, walk slowly on your knees
Draw out what is wild
Search for your name in
Bog Laurel, low to the ground,
Fireweed’s magenta, or a dash 
of Scarlett Paintbrush, 
Flashing red orange like 
A giant sun rising over 
A promised field 
And may the deer print 
Of these words find you
As the full-throated morning
Holds its breath 
Child of your own breaking
My hands are empty now
A nest in winter, or a shape
For a god who will soon awaken