By George Kalandadze
The hooting owl ne’er scared me,
midst the blackness of sylvan night.
But so more she had prepared me,
veiled lore in sands of time foreseen.
-- Eyes of amber immured in light.
Wind -- her confidant, in hushed tone,
my notice happened to ensnare.
She resembled all, yet no one,
branches bending, beneath her lun.
Yet, misplaced, I wandered still, there.
Her head, a cosmic carousel,
an omnipotent balance wheel.
Each hoot, an echoed hoary bell.
Mistral’s replies through bluebells swell,
Night hummed, a beehive, -- surreal.
That instant, yonder on the limb,
sat other owl, ready to speak.
The wind, now sacred seraphim,
my equal in ancestral dream.
In silence, we beheld mystique.
About the author: George Kalandadze is an author of poetry and fiction. He has a degree in liberal arts from St. John's College and lives in Tbilisi, Georgia. George was published multiple times by St. John's College writing and art publications, "The Gadfly" and "Energeia". In his spare time, he pursues photography and mountaineering. More details can be found here:
No comments:
Post a Comment