Snowy Owl of my dreams;
Can you help me fly above my fears?
Can you help me traverse those acres
Of snow, with courage as my only
O, Ancestors! Rise up to me!
Beat your drums – weave your
Shawls out of stellar glass: for
Tonight we will unfold our wings,
Set foot in the chariot of the
Cosmic Horse, to dine with
The spectres of substance
And you are my spectres.
You have raised me up in
More lives than I can count;
Delivered me into an out of
Strife – made me a nervous
Newlywed, and a grieving
And I know what it is to grieve –
To be pierced by the fervour of
The night; to cast that ebon shawl
Into luminous hallways that know
No night, but The Night of Nothing –
To evanesce into skies so removed
From density, it integrates All
Into The One.
But, I will not speak of The One with
Number-stained lips – I will only speak
To you of Snowy Owls – of the fabulist
Messengers who sustain my dreams,
And ease me back into Everything
And that is what I will take from you,
Snowy Owl, Dream Owl, fertilizing the
Thoughts of billions with your phantasmal
Pinions – with the phantasmagoria of every
Flight that showers us all in stars
That is what I will take from you, Snowy
Owl – I will take the Absolute Everything I see
You clutching in your claws.
For your yellow eyes see everything –
They, too, inject themselves into the
Veins of the night – they, too, tell the
Soul where it must go, to berobe its
Fertile distress with Wisdom.
And This I will Bless.
And This I will Love.
And This I will harbour
In an eternal chest –
That lifts us above
The contagion of
For I am done with sorrow. For,
Though I still weep, and my body,
Verily, often feels like an unreleased
Bag of tears – still, I cry, howl, weep,
And wail – still I will explode with the
Gift of Liberty, with the starburst of
Every tear fall
And, as God weeps those self-same tears
Back into your face; as Gods and Goddesses
Cry – every tear a legion – the pain milked
From every unwanted goodbye – as God weeps
Into my face, I will weep back into hers; and ours will
Be a union of such terrific tears, that it could be
Neither seen nor heard.
Then I will be The Snowy Owl –
Then I will be the parchment of
Every tear – then I will be the fragrance
Of an imploding happiness that always
Has too much to share
And, as I rip from your beak the heart-felt
Letter that you bear, sealed with the
Stamp of an elastic soul, I will weep into
The miracle of your thunderous words –
Give myself up to the birds – to sell my
Remains to The City of Shadows, and the
Thirst of every Hug.