Jane Lloyd Francis

The Crow and the Pitcher

The crow was dry, with a stiff dust-cloud flight.

It longed to drink, to ease a rusty throat,

And knowing good water, dropped into the valley

For a pitcher, a vessel, or a stream bed running.

It longed to drink, to cure a curdled throat.

The bird found good water, locked deep in the valley

In a pitcher; a vessel, near a stream bed cracking

The jug was ivy-tangled, hid by a guardian yew.

The crow cried over water, barred from the world

And the jug became a well— its source echo-long down

Ringed by bricks, blocks and man-made forms

And the bird dropped one wish to its staunch reflection.

The well stirred at source from the echo-long down

It talked fluidly with blocks and man-made forms.

The bird dropped another wish in its loose reflection

The water drew closer; shining for the crow’s eye.

The water babbled cures and swept past bricks and blocks.

The bird dropped a wish into a rising tide.

The water drew closer, shining at the moon’s face.

Both shapes flowed through age-old time and dust.

The crow’s one wish was to be fluid in thinking

The water drew closer, rising to the bird’s thirst.

The rivers flowed forth. The crow was restored.

The bird would yet survive, and felt itself soar.

The rivers rushed forward, not ceasing conversation

Restoring ebb and flow and water-locking all cures

Out-living the blocks and the man-made in the valley

The crow became a chalice, and brought forth blossom, on a wingbeat.

by Suzanne Iuppa

for A Drop in the Ocean

Spring 2015