Raven

Silence gathers in the corners of the room,

dust-soft on old picture frames.

On the sill, a raven settles,

all shadow and sharp outline,

eyes catching light the way stories catch breath.

The question comes without a sound,

but lands as clearly as a hand on the shoulder:

What are you good for?

//

Inheritance;

The air remembers laughter in small kitchens,

stories told with the same hands that fixed what was broken.

Photographs lean in their frames,

caught between sepia and unfinished sentences.

In the raven’s gaze lives that same gravity;

the quiet standard set by calloused hands,

steady eyes,

a life that never needed to brag to prove its weight.

The question is not accusation;

it is invitation.

//

Measure;

Answers do not arrive as speeches,

only as fragments.

Good for early mornings and long drives,

for building something from almost nothing.

Good for showing up when it counts;

for holding promises like anchors

even when the water rises.

Good for loving fiercely,

for choosing family over comfort,

for standing in the doorway

between chaos and the ones who rest.

Each small act gathers quietly,

a lived reminder of what the name can mean.

//

Trial;

The raven does not nod;

does not soften.

A guardian of few gestures,

more witness than judge.

Success here is not trophies or applause,

but the distance between what was inherited

and what is being made.

Every day a test:

Will the work honor the name that came before it,

or settle for echo without substance?

The question repeats,

in long hours at the desk,

in the weight of unfinished tasks:

"What are you good for?"

//

Flight;

Seasons turn-

calendars change-

the sill gathers new dust.

The raven comes and goes,

never far,

a shadow at the edge of vision

in boardrooms, in backyards, in late-night screens.

The room feels different for having been watched;

more accountable,

less alone.

Striving becomes a kind of prayer;

every risk, every sacrifice,

every quiet act of courage

held up toward an unseen perch.

Somewhere above the day-to-day noise,

a raven wheels in a wide, patient circle,

black against whatever sky there is,

keeping watch;

waiting not for perfection,

but for a life lived as an answer

to the question once given and never withdrawn.