“when the barn owl hoots no more,” “no trace,” and “again”

In Poetry by Christa Lubatkin

“when the barn owl hoots no more,” “no trace,” and “again”
Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

when the barn owl hoots no more

when the night’s

dark eyes won’t lift their lids

the sun

won’t cheer the day awake

storms

lose their breath

oceans

forget their flow

when flowers

take their last bow

leaves

abandon trees

and the barn owl

hoots no more

I will lift my eyes

to the distant horizon

where memory

brings back

meandering trails

where lively brooks

splash like laughter

over polished rocks

reminding us

of treasured faces

in carefree times

and where we stood

on the high plateau

in the warmth

of each other’s sunshine

no trace

hands tease

ripples over water

from a log

a row of sunning turtles

slips under

paddles from view

on land again – stillness

no trace of our presence

on lake’s blank face

only remembrance

footprints in the dark

a feather swept from sight

again

it’s hateful Monday following on the heels of boring Sunday when folks sleep in go to bed early to face a week of days piling up at the gate eager to pick up the office shovel turn masterful tricks for rewards that tease the  Joneses  and us  with our mile-long  shopping lists  to stay  ahead of neighbors  until at five  it is time to close  the files grab  take-out to feed the kids who study for Tuesday exams

I won’t bore you with the rest of the stressful week simmering on the back-burner just short of bubbling over making a mess with dried-on crusts of weekday living until it arrives breathless at busy Saturday to hang laundry sort socks watch kids kick balls with their heads then demand with sweat-glistening seriousness to stop at the pizza joint with the rest of the team

you won’t begrudge us the five o’clock martini – double olives and a twist – legs crossed under the umbrella table watching the sinking sun dip out of sight until it reappears you guessed it – Sunday morning when we yawn on lawns breathing in the smell of Saturday’s mowing

should I weep or scream

at the inventor of the week

About the Author

Christa Lubatkin

Though she has not had her fill of mountain trails, of late, Christa has settled for lesser walks. She finds her time caring for her husband a difficult and satisfying part of her life now. Her most satisfying work has been as a hiking guide through wonderful landscapes both here and abroad. Her poetry has appeared in the beautiful pages of The Write Launch as well as Haunted Waters Press, Cathexis Northwest, Beyond Words and a Willowdown Books anthology and others.