The sun does droop with epic effort;
Land alight for another day;
Slowly sways beyond hills to slumber;
Amidst encroaching gray;
Each shade of the day retires;
First bright citrus fades away;
Then complex tones of earth and blood;
On dancing meadows lay;
The disc, alight, does bid adieu;
Followed by its color guard;
Until the land grows cold and quiet;
Its contours ever darkness-scarred
A night so dark that even flame is frightened;
Into a dull monotone;
Where the Earth exhales, and slowly whispers;
The sacred mantra om;
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
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.