Passages

Stalks of elderberries throw arms up to the sky
and thistles sheet my pants cuffs as I go wandering by.
A lonely crow deserts his branch to crest the sheltering trees,
wings laboring to make use of the essence of a breeze.

Its loss sets up a wispy tremor in the depths below
as it lifts above the branch that wavers to and fro.
The world thus marks the passage of every living thing.
What will we leave or will we take when our souls take wing?

For Sunday Whirl Wordle 593  the prompts nearly write the poem itself: sheet elder thistle throw stalks loss crow tremor crest wispy depths sky