The Owl in the Woodwork
        —for Charles Burchfield (1893-1967)

I soared over darkened
fields and feasted
on mice.
As the sun rose
over the hill
I plunged
into the dusky woods
to avoid the blinding
light and became lodged
between two young
white pines.
We grew together
and my eyes turned
to knots
my blood to sap
my body to wood.
Then a thunderous
splintering and buzzing
as a jagged disk
cut through me.
I hate this light.

Tweet

Copyright © 2017 Ron Domen All rights reserved
from Plaintive Music
Dos Madres Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission