At dusk the house blinks, as if it is just waking up
Though like an owl, its eyes were open all day
And the house only sleeps deeply for about eleven seconds
At a time. Like the owl, the house can rest
Half its brain more fully by closing one eye.
How the house’s dreams must differ from ours–
What would our dreams be like if we could see only
What our left brain or right brain most desired?
Like the house, the owl knows nothing beyond
Containment. Its mouth is small and full of earth.
Like the house, the owl makes its home
Close to the dense trees where the paths
Are too narrow for larger things to bother it,
Blends in with its surroundings. Why do we
Think the owl is wise and the house empty
Of soul? Even its rapidly beating heart, matching
That of a baby, and its ferocity at its nest
Staring down the hawk will not obtain it the favor
Of the God of the woman in the house. The moon
Can be seen through the top loop of the porch swing’s
S-hook from where the shadow crouches, feeling
For a spare key. The owl’s pupils flare, then its lower
eyelids rise as it settles in again; the thing on the porch
has scared the prey from the yard. In one room above
The house begins to dream.
What an excellent poem! I love the interplay between owl and house and dream.
Reblogged this on O at the Edges and commented:
Jeff Schwaner considers the perspectives of houses, of owls…
Thanks for this profound dream of a poem, Jeff.