The Visitation

When Raven comes—so silently—
A feathered ghost on moonlit tree.
No caw, no cry—just mystic grace,
With hands of time in his embrace.

He brings a gift, both worn and wise,
Revealing truth behind the lies.
The gift foretells what none can stall—
That time will end for one and all.

The barren tree, in winter’s chill,
Has living roots and pulses still.
Spring will return; new days will dawn;
Buds will appear—time presses on.

When Raven takes his final flight,
And disappears in failing night,
Don’t hesitate—don’t drift, don’t wait.
The time is now. The hour is late.

—   Ricky Tims, 2025

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