owls among me

In the darkness of the room; I am surrounded by owls

sighing with their blue-white eyes as they sit on tables, shelves, and ceilings

they gaze;

but yet they do not see.

No fault of mine for I know not where

in what factory, in what nation they took their sight; yet

I wonder, in the obsidian winter beyond these walls,

who are you, owl of mine?

Can you think, or are these numbers upon you a tattoo

left by an elder long since past away;

can you smile, or is this happy expression merely a mind contemplating

for a few minutes too long;

And can you feel, or do your memories hold no tulips, no zinnias, no tours around

a field, coyly gazing at an owl sweetly returning your gaze

Bedside owl, I do not know what sorrow you hold, what joy.

But I love you, if it means anything.

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