fizzing
in those hollowed-out trunks—
great horned owls in and out
of the days before that,
hooting in the depths of October.
Five pieces of bark for kindling,
the stove and the wood are damp.
I see heaven in the west, Orion,
my son, rising over the barn. I am
a few lost, cautious steps to the road.
Every day, I check my Why I Feel
Landscape. A saw-whet owl sits
on the woodpile; looks in the window.
Hawks and owls read the landscape
for nest potential while I mother myself
and my son. I feel my time with him
sometimes a musty wood trail,
sometimes a white band of conscious
decisions, like indigo as a homeopathic
remedy for grieving.
I could trash the sky and not be done yet.
I can’t possibly get through the nesting,
over the nesting,
even when a shooting star falls
over the barn. It doesn’t spend the night,
or capture the feeling of this life.
tends flowers for a living. She writes her best poetry while weeding someone else’s garden. Her poems can be found in Gargoyle, KYSO Flash, Sweet: A Literary Confection, and elsewhere. She lives in Southwest Michigan with her family and their rooster, Mr. Beautiful.
