In My Wintermonths Poem by Jacqui Thewless

I don't say that perfectly formed green
beginnings, rising from the thaw, did not
to me once hint of wheat, though empty
grass;

or that I never longingly
spied good seed scattered
with glass on fields I tip-toed over,
lonesome in autumn.

These things that happen
to doves, occurred for me, too.
Nothing is perfect.
I couldn't be

the same bird in my wintermonths,
losing the ability to cluck or coo,
I began to
tar myself

black as the Ravens,
with awful feathers and a voice
even I am still
partly afraid of; picking and choosing

among words,
endlessly concerned with everything contrary
and just so. Like a strange
hen, finding grain of my own. I became Crow.