A greying form set deep in evening wood,
practices stilling time In firey blood
Beyond my home somehow an oddity,
to those who’s lives bleed incongruity.
The uniform, where their allegiance lies,
obtuse to perfect patterns in my eyes.
Almost too vivid, as if I might burn,
The eyes or hearts that dare to look too long.
Touched by the wolf and heron’s majesty,
the rainbows arc, aurora’s mystic light,
the things that set my grieving spirit free,
still lend their fire to bring my eyes delight.
This old owl’s imbued illumined grace,
whose lighted eyes know even darkness’ face,
they trace the beauty in all things they see,
the promise of life’s immortality.
Resting on this hill above the field,
I wait to see what way lightning will take.
And having learned that I am dreaming still,
await true beauties face when I awake.