The old wizards know more than the new ones,
of whom there are none.
The young man in his dotage strokes an owl’s
feathers in its tree.
At dawn the moon turns into the first light
of her sleek body.
You’re never too old to be done with love,
says the aging sage.
No man can fly unless he begins where
her legs lift him off.
There are no owls beyond her bay windows
until she’s alone.
Sun melts the snow. You can hear the river
but you can’t see it.
(16 November 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander