The Owl

Was it you I thought

your breath

on my shoulder

so cold and clean?

A memory of you

riven to me

like a silver pin?

As if I’d been taken

for nourishment

and devoured?

You who always watches

to whom I’m blind.

Except now, here, in a moment

I never expected:

you holding me,

I holding you,

our future and our past

flying through the trees

on silent wings.