In the canopy,
on the floor,
a story is written
on stem, tangle-vine,
rock.
Owl sits in judgement.
Raven disputes the verdict.
Field mouse musters
a new defense.
Elms drape greenwood
with brown rag leaves,
discarded, derelict.
A delicate worry.
In a small clearing,
a mat of feathers
soft and gray as the overcast sky,
cradles delicate bones in
a white we all know.
They slowly crumble into
the dust we also know.
This is the circle we’re in,
its ebbs and flows.
This is the beautiful, awful language
of this life.
Poem by Carolyn Adams
Carolyn Adams’ poetry and art have appeared in Panoply, Amsterdam Quarterly, Visitant, Bryant Literary Review, and Trajectory, among others. She is the author of four chapbooks, and has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, as well as for Best of the Net. Currently a staff editor for Mojave River Review, she is also a poetry editor for VoiceCatcher.