Not the owl whose short questions are strung
On this line of dark hours like rosary beads.
Not the cloud’s cold eyelid closing over
The near-empty parking lot in each of our minds.
What drove you there and what were you trying
To buy on such a night when the moon arcs away
Like the last snowball you threw at a friend
You outgrew without knowing? They both faded,
They both landed somewhere beyond sight.
Not the short-tempered ladder to memory.
The night’s too wide to haunt. But for a few
Moments, it opened its eye to look at you
And swept across your life without noticing:
Who you missed, who you hit, how cold
Your hands were when it took shape.
And an idea drifted down un-owned
And clung to you like frost, an owl flown,
A string of prayers creased by doubt.
Excellent poem, Jeff. I love the “short-tempered ladder to memory” and “a string of prayers creased by doubt.”
Thanks man! You guys doing okay?
It’s been hellishly cold and windy here. We just moved (three doors down) to a new, bigger apartment right in the middle of the arctic blast.