The ear is the last face. —Emily Dickinson
Now the owl comes
to my sleep, unbidden.
I take its call, sculpted
and clear, in to the immensity
inside me, let it pass
through, a journey
not governed by wisdom.
The owl is hungry
and will not stay long.
It means only to be owl,
not gift or omen.
It will not fall silent
when I die, nor will I
grieve in its absence.
But how perfect now
the increase.