Jet-black flyer, wintry clime,
Sheen refracting sun-lit feathers,
How to parse a bird so fine,
Dark as pitch what e’er the weather.
Can it be that such a hue
Carries with it thoughts of death,
Has us ponder, ask anew,
What remains for us of breath?
Or do such colors as the crow’s,
Call attention to the light,
Set against New England snows,
The opposite of death and night?
A deep enigma, what’s the answer?
Let me ask the crow, Zen Master.
Crow Koan
Show Comments ()
1
Comments are automatically closed two weeks after an article's initial publication. See our comments policy for more.
11 years 5 months ago
Vince, Thanks so much for this poem; it's love you.
The latest from america
As we grapple with fragmentation, political polarization and rising distrust in institutions, a national embrace of volunteerism could go a long way toward healing what ails us as a society.
I forget—did God make death?
you discovered heaven spread to the edges
of a max lucado picture book
The joys and challenges of a new child stretched me in ways I couldn’t have imagined.