. for Desiree, who I know was listening
Walking along willows so thick and deep
that the winter creek could scarcely say its name,
willows so bright in twig with spring’s promise —
red and yellow, green and gold—that the lingering sun
bathing the high fall of hills was scarcely needed,
long before the hour when owls should fly, or sing,
or cease to hide from lesser birds, two February owls,
though they had spent their blinking day apart,
one on a twiggy nest, one in a broom of branches,
began to boom their joy in being mated.
I was miles from you, miles and hours and more,
and scarcely in a hurry to leave a world readying itself
for bloom. But still, beloved, am I wrong to guess
you glanced, once, or more than once, from your window?
Wrong to guess you listened for my hollow song?