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.