Black Rook in Rainy Weather

Black Rook in Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there

Hunches a wet black rook

Arranging and rearranging its feathers

in the rain.

I do not expect a miracle

Or an accident

To set the sight on fire

In my eye, nor seek

Any more in the desultory weather

some design,

But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,

Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,

Occasionally, some backtalk

From the mute sky, I can't honestly

complain:

A certain minor light may still 

Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair 

As if a celestial burning took

Possession of the most obtuse objects

now and then -

Thus hallowing an interval

Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largess, honor,

One might say love.  At any rate,

I now walk

Wary (for it could happen

Even in this dull, ruinous landscape);

skeptical,

Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare

Suddenly at my elbow.  I only know

that a rook

Ordering its black feathers can so shine

As to seize my senses, haul

My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear

Of total neutrality.  With luck,

Trekking stubborn through this season

Of fatigue, I shall

Patch together a content

Of sorts.  Miracles occur, 

If you dare to call those spasmodic

Tricks of radiance miracles.  The wait's 

begun again,

The long wait for the angel,

For that rare, random descent.

Sylvia Plath

A close friend gifted me this book several years ago; an Advent read.  I'm somewhat unconventional when it comes to typical Christmas practices, and perusing daily devotional books is not a practice I normally engage in.  But I've found this book to be quite different.  Sylvia Plath's poem, an excerpt from the book, is a great example.  If interested, you can find it here.