Last night, in the dark, I was awakened by owls.
Two years since I last heard this sound,
as the little red clock passed into
your house at midnight, signifying your blessed beginning,
I heard them calling to each other in the night oaks,
no longer lonesome in the time of the
gathering, I found you again.
And I found me.
But I am not pictures.
I am not stories.
I am not acorns, feathers or bones.
I am not photographs,
nor oak trees or weathered silos.
I am not words or even sounds.
I am not emotions.
I am not time.
I am not histories, visions or dreams.
I am not wishes.
I am not these arms, these hands, these eyes.
I am found outside of alphabets,
I defy form.
I abandon the boat.
If I have to I will die in this ocean.
And it will be a clean death,
salted with truth.
I am everything and I am nothing,
I am the blue irises I can no longer deliver.