Owl Song

It is suddenly March
and the sun has come,
creeping back in the direction
of my windows
so that the geranium I saved
from the outdoor place
of frost before winter
has cast out hope
in the form of red
brilliant blossoms
and new shoots
of green smiles
and their undeniable life.

Last night
at this same window
the lonely sound of owl song
came to find me
in the unexpected splendor
of alone.

Who would have predicted
I'd prefer solitude calling from branches
of tall pine to the hungry arms
of expectation?

Who would have known
that a few tender words
and stolen kisses of light
would fill me with the echos
of night birds
calling to their lovers
before the feasting of the shadows
nearest the heart?

Tonight I will sit quietly again
as the sun sets to the magic blue
of spring melting snow
and practice waiting
for nothing
near the red of another years' flowers

and the haunting silent flight
toward the question
of so much grateful love.