by Julie Walczesky

She tries to remember to move the porcelain owl,
around the house and grounds, so the spirit of her father,
who lives in the owl, can have a change of scenery.

Kitchen window view, always especially pleasing-
watching birds eating, brown squirrels thieving,
azalea leaves drinking in the blood red sap of summer.

October sun angles in, burning tender skin
and light gently fades, blending bright into night
till afternoons feel just like mornings.

Then winter approaches, with slivers of platinum
star-scrawled message scattered across
an indigo felt forever-ness,

Like midnight’s blanket, dotted with fireflies,
twinkles are held a few seconds longer
so he can un-paint his eyelids and see them,

If only he would un-paint his eyelids and see them.