December 17, 2021

The Huntress

Perhaps I hunt you
in all the wrong places-- 
a mountain face
never shorn of snow; 
the shipwreck 
of an ancient tree;
a moth, aflame within 
a sun-struck web --
but these things
are but preparation-- 
building awareness
of life between lines,
deciphering the subtext --
the life and words
pulsating behind 
the unblinking pupils
of a resting owl;
the counter-melody
being sung by rivers
and creeks empty 
of all but cold --
of a power at work
for purposes I may 
never comprehend
but still wish to know-- 
Preparation for that 
delivered hour, 
the invitation that has 
no refusal -- when
my brain must recognize 
what my soul expects: 
You, flying down 
that tunnel of light,
coming to get me home.