Owls in December (Two Years After)

My fierce owls flit around this dusty house. 

He says to me, “You can’t say they’re not real.” 

And that was the only thing that got me through the cancer winter that

endless scrawling year of hangover chemotherapy sighs. After illness

finally retreats, I imagine that they may indeed loop and arc cursive

letters high in the still wind of a December afternoon. Strix Varia, O

Barred Owl of my soul.  

The bluebird and the robin, stuffies, too, perch in the picture window,  watch over us and keep us  

company in this silent mirage. 

And the white birches of my mind rise higher towards effervescence. When I am no longer neglectful of my need for pleasure,  they will bring water to my parched wrinkled heart. 

Owls, too, soar like the sky marble arches of my living being slowly birthed again-- 

I would like to fly in the next deep blizzard with them, 

climb mountains in the sky, 

visit my mother and father in the next world 

close to the caul of this one. 

*Strix Varia is the Latin name for the Barred Owl