Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard…

Mary Oliver – Always worth (re)reading.

Purplerays

His beak could open a bottle, 
and his eyes – when he lifts their soft lids –
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder –
Blake, maybe, 
or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only 
the black-smocked crickets, 
and the dragonflies if they happen
to be out late over the ponds, and of course
the occasional festal mouse.
Never mind that he is only a memo
from the offices of fear –

it’s not size but surge that tells us
when we’re in touch with something real, 
and when I hear him in the orchard
fluttering
down the little aluminum
ladder of his scream –
when I see his wings open, like two black ferns, 

a flurry of palpitations
as cold as sleet
rackets across the marshlands
of my heart
like a wild spring day.

Somewhere in the universe, 
in the gallery of important things, 
the…

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About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on September 1, 2019, in Poem - Not Written By Me Though, Poetry, Reposted from elsewhere. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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