Spring was late

Art - Stephanie Roberts, Houston, 2023

Spring was late,
birds didn’t sing.
Vague gray shades
were clinging.
Darkness
wouldn’t give way;
March had
confiscated May.

She felt weak,
withered, spent.
Winter’s bleak
chilling wind
whistled in
the willow limbs;
whispered
dim predictions.

As she sank
deeper still,
shrank into
a blank chill,
a shrill cry
pierced her night
to light a fire
inside. 

It warmed her
from despair,
and warned her,
“Don’t be scared.”
A master
presence there
flew past her
in black air. 

Ivory wings 
glided
to alight
right by her side;
a messenger
unlike
any others
of her kind.

Wordlessly 
she offered,
encouraged,
advised;
silently
reminded,
“Our nature is
to rise. 

“Seek solitude.
Settle it
gently
into you.
Then listen
with gratitude
to hear
your radical truth.

“Hug Night
like a friend;
sunset
isn’t the end.
When eyes might
lead astray,
soulsight
sees the way.

“Convert death and hurt;
turn them
to rebirth.
Blossom
hopefully;
conceive
your own spring.”

When she 
turned to stare,
the barn owl
wasn’t there.
She may have
never been;
she may have
been within.

Then she sensed
her blooms;
caught their scent,
and knew
she’d mindfully
resume
her cycle
of renewal. 

Emerging
from the gray
to flourish
into day,
she’d made
a sacred pact
to take
her power back.

Lee DeNoya - Prescott AZ/SLC UT, May 2023