The Owl Who Comes
by Mary Oliver
The owl who comes through the dark to sit in the black boughs of the apple tree
and stare down the hook of his beak, dead silent, and his eyes,
like two moons in the distance, soft and shining under their heavy lashes --
like the most beautiful life -- is thinking of nothing as he watches
and waits to see what might appear, briskly, out of the seamless,
deep winter -- out of the teeming world below -- and if I wish the owl luck,
and I do, what am I wishing for that other soft life, climbing through the snow?
What we must do, I suppose is to hope the world keeps its balance:
what we are to do, however, with our hearts waiting and watching -- truly I do not know.
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