I.
In my hand, a
boreal owl has died -
Waiting for the spirit to
pass.
The softness of her feathers,
the beauty of this other form
of life. I look
closely.
White and perfect.
II.
Shelter. It sounds so handsome.
Comforting, (real), true -
and yet it is a little wall between a
person and all the rest.
So little there.
The fragility of crystal after crystal can
be my killer.
One small thing plus another equals
a power greater than any shelter humans can
build.
III.
Without electricity.
I am surrounded
by comfort. All of a piece -
myself and the world. Close to
one another.
Boundaries are gone.
Distance has changed.
The rock above are closer
than before. The trees in the
moonlight, the horses so close
I can see the ghost of
their breath.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
I.
In my hand, a
boreal owl has died -
Waiting for the spirit to
pass.
The softness of her feathers,
the beauty of this other form
of life. I look
closely.
White and perfect.
II.
Shelter. It sounds so handsome.
Comforting, (real), true -
and yet it is a little wall between a
person and all the rest.
So little there.
The fragility of crystal after crystal can
be my killer.
One small thing plus another equals
a power greater than any shelter humans can
build.
III.
Without electricity.
I am surrounded
by comfort. All of a piece -
myself and the world. Close to
one another.
Boundaries are gone.
Distance has changed.
The rock above are closer
than before. The trees in the
moonlight, the horses so close
I can see the ghost of
their breath.
A scatterin' poem from "Snow" by Linda Hogan, published by "Orion" - Spring 2011.
