When looking out the back window
at night I can’t see the owl I hear
but a faint outline
of the sandbox on the porch
a playground for unwanted crickets
who nestle to the bottom
waiting to surprise me one summer day
I thought the neighborhood owl had left us
run out by wild turkeys and boredom
but tonight in this rare quiet moment
I hear him in the distance
the bellow of his hoot rising
above the trees
reminding
and now the house is almost quiet
as the calls of the crickets
seep in through open windows
and that owl says hello or something
beyond the words within my reach
and I am sure he speaks to me directly
in rising moonlight still
and I would call to him if I could
in some primal way to say
I am here
too
After the Quarrel
The zinc-filled sky broke into a slow
rung of thunder, shaking the quarrel from our limbs
as our heavy words sunk low within us,
like that long rumbling, sneaking through spring,
making even the earth itself flinch.
I left my diary alone that day,
tossing my thoughts into the thunder
that threatened our good time
when our angry words
slipped into the soft space between us.
On another day, I know, one with clear skies and warmth,
however fleeting, we will make our way
through the neighborhood, finding the bamboo
someone laid on the roadside. You will pick up
one lone pole and you’ll try hard to balance it
while riding your bike, and our words,
rung in silent messages between us,
will cleanse our heaviness as we wait for each other.
I’ll look back at you, with your hands
off the handlebars, balancing that bamboo stalk
and you’ll flinch when you notice me watching,
I, the critic of your mind. Sometimes, I yearn to disappear
so I can watch you longer
unnoticed, unflinching
and perhaps, one day,
we will understand.
In the Pause
a sunset walk will
stop our conversation
and with dismissive eyes
you'll look away
I'll dance a prayer
and on another day
I'll try again
when I can't share of what
I mean
concerning you
I'll only see
a quiet porch
a pause made clear
then strains
to hear my mother's voice
through dirty piles
of plates and knives
as late day sun
through panes
shines strong and casts
a tainted purple light
on all our struggles
crumbling into night