Owl Hour Poem by Lisa Russ Spaar

Houseless against gray glower,
juniper dank, grisaille pagoda firs,

& sounding an unplumbed sleeting
within, girlhood's obscure guilt lingering,

a voice calling you inside, this betiding
fur-stirred wedge in high oak, swaddled child,

prehistoric eye in unlikely presiding
above the park's trapeze of empty swings.

I know it will disappear
if I look away. To be clear,

Figment, seed invisible in sky's snow:
any mutiny in this going is mine, I know.