For Pramila

It wasn’t just a feeling:

The sun stood still,

The light in the hours was weak

And the ravens came out,

Curious about us being there.

They were black like ink.

Perched on the high branches,

They surveilled us.

As if from the longest night

The ravens came out on top of trees

And looked us in the eye.

You turned away from them

Sensing how I was drawn

By their powerful wings

That flopped above us.

The sun stood still,

The light in the hours was weak,

So much like this time of my life,

When luck stands still.

The ravens were feasting in the fields

I loved their powerful beaks

They took my soul under their wings,

It wasn’t just a feeling.

We counted the ravens—two

And then three, five, more—

They flew so low in the fields

As I walked after them.

Death is a sacred time,

I walked with the ravens in the fields.


I had forgotten that it was the shortest day,

When I asked you to join me.

All I wanted was a walk in the fields,

We always see hawks and herons there,

We look for omens about going away

From here. My luck stands still.

Death is a sacred time.

The ravens did not speak to me

From the tops of trees. They looked

At us as fellow travelers and left.

The water in the sea was clear.

I’ve come through the longest night,

You see, my dear. The Earth continues

To tilt: it’s not just a feeling.

December 21-22, 2022

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